


The Misplaced Agent Affair

by Romanse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Time, Legal Proceedings, M/M, Plot Intensive, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 175,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romanse/pseuds/Romanse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Illya's having a bad day, but Napoleon has his back.   Luckily for Napoleon, Illya has his back too.   Ecclesiastes 4:10 says it best:  For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up.  (TEN YEARS and this baby is now FINISHED!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: CindyB (chapters 1-11) Di T (chapters 12-23), and Jazline, (chapters 1-26) and PeriWinkle (Chapters 24-27)  
> All remaining mistakes are mine. Not yet beta'd.
> 
> Summary: Illya's having a bad day, but Napoleon has his back.  
> Warnings: Slash, IK/NS, H/C, Drama, Angst, First-Time
> 
> This story is dedicated to Jazline and ChannelD - you both know why.
> 
>  
> 
> This long-standing WIP will be given an new home here. The chapter numbers may or may not exactly correspond to the chapters previously posted years ago. Some readers may be aware of the successful completion of another long-standing WIP of mine, "This Side of New Orleans" a few months ago. That makes one down, two more to go. The Misplaced Agent Affair is now the only fic I am working on, for as long as I can to get it finished in 2016. As of today, a new installment has been added on my LJ. If anybody cares to read this story: Happy Reading!

 

  
If there was one thing Illya Kuryakin knew for sure, it was that Napoleon Solo would come for him. It was a fact of life just like the certainty of nature’s phenomenon. Fall changed into winter, the sun rose in the East and set in the West, the Earth rotated on its axis.

Napoleon had his back.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the unspoken hidden truth that both U.N.C.L.E. agents carried around deep inside the recesses of their souls but were careful to never examine too closely: Neither one of them had a hope in hell of dying of old age in a comfortable bed, surrounded by a loving wife and wailing grandchildren.

Right now, when maniacal scientist number one-hundred-and-fifty four was in the act of burying him alive in a dark, damp basement pit, Illya felt closer to that truth, more than he’d ever had.

He was angry with himself. Angry for the most embarrassing, amateurish way in which he’d been captured and for the most undignified state that Napoleon would most likely find his naked corpse.

He was weakened through dehydration, in pain because of his broken leg, and stripped of his clothes. His communicator pen and weapon had long since parted company with him. He had no idea how long exactly he’d been trapped in the pit - day had turned to night, and night into day at least twice, he thought. After that, time stood still and ceased to pass in a manner that he could perceive.

It was getting harder and harder to move and breathe as the dark earth rained down on top of him from where the mad scientist was standing some 12 feet above him.

Dr. Phoenix, or Mad Scientist One-Hundred-Fifty-Four, as Illya preferred to call him, seemed to be unable to go about his diabolical deed without cheerfully humming a dreadful rendition of _Ride of the Valkyries_ , much to Illya’s annoyance. Occasionally, he would punctuate the tune with gleeful chortles.

The man who would surely kill him enjoyed his work. They all did. He was going to meet his end by asphyxiation in a god-forsaken pit because of a man with delusions of grandeur and sub-standard scientific skills.

_Why did it always have to be a maniacal scientist anyway?_

Illya tried to shield his eyes and nose from the falling earth. The dirt now was waist high and holding his lower body immobile. He’d all but forgotten about the pain of his badly broken leg. Indeed, he focused on the one thing that still worked: his lungs. He could draw breath, and he could yell. The fact that it was unlikely that his cries for help would be heard by anyone else was irrelevant. If he was going to die like this, it wouldn’t be with the strains of that hideous song compounding his agony.

“Help! Napoleon!” Illya cried and nearly choked as the dirt poured faster and faster, the particles swirling. The dirt level rose and began to compress his chest painfully. He fought to breathe and found he couldn’t.

Anger fled and tendrils of fear threatened to take its place. He strained to keep his head and arms above the rising dirt. He was tired, oh so tired. He could close his eyes, stop struggling, and let the inevitable be over sooner as opposed to just a tad later.

It wasn’t in Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin to give up - not until they pried his cold, dead body out of this untimely grave. Only then would he concede defeat he thought grimly. _And where the hell are you, Napoleon?_

But it no longer mattered now where Napoleon was. The dark spots that danced so subtly were doing a jig now behind his closed eyes. There was no sound now, and there was no more air. The dirt that filled his ears now blocked his nostrils and covered his head. The falling dirt immobilized one hand, leaving the other still free and spasming above his head until it too, was stilled.

His last conscious thought was one steeped in the deepest regret. Not for himself, but for the grief he knew he would cause the one he left behind. _Forgive me, Napoleon_. Then he knew no more.

******

As duty required, Napoleon Solo had come to the ball dressed in a tuxedo; the perfect masked, male escort for Contessa Iverson in this latest THRUSH affair gone bad. But Solo was no longer where he was supposed to be, and Contessa, the spinster niece of the head of THRUSH North America, was going to hand him his head whenever he got back to the fabulous Four Seasons Hotel in Washington, DC.

He didn’t care.

Two weeks ago, the lonely Contessa had become his ticket into the THRUSH-sponsored ball where Napoleon was to have an opportunity to acquire information about the organization from a rather unique source. During those weeks when Napoleon had employed his considerable charm to woo the old spinster, she'd unwittingly told the U.N.C.L.E. agent all about the new potential information source. Her colorless lips were turned down in a perpetual disapproving frown as she confided in someone whom she thought not too bright, but possessed of an undeniable charm.

According to Contessa, sometime during the masked ball the music would temporarily stop, and the attendees would be invited to resume their seats around the festive tables lining the dance floor. The closed stage curtains would part, revealing a big screen mounted in the center. There on the screen, the audience would be treated to a series of short, humorous write-ups consisting of various THRUSH-U.N.C.L.E. affair scenarios from the past year. The THRUSH masked ball entertainment committee members had spent months reading case files and pre-selecting some of the more humorous incidents to use.

The humorous scenarios tended to highlight the follies or incompetence of unidentified THRUSH or U.N.C.L.E. agents during some portion of an affair that had led to relatively harmless and correctable glitches. The fun of it for the senior agents was in figuring out the identity of the featured hapless agent and in making sport of them.

Back at their shared office space, Napoleon and Illya had concluded that some of the spot-lighted incidents might involve THRUSH projects and personnel that U.N.C.L.E. was currently unaware of. U.N.C.L.E.'s covert presence at the ball could yield a bounty of new information. Waverly had concurred, and he'd urged Napoleon to worm his way into becoming Contessa’s escort to the ball, in order to observe the proceedings and discern THRUSH’s more secretive projects.

As for Solo's blond Russian partner, he was given an independent assignment. Prior to the ball, Illya was to be dispatched to an undisclosed location in West Virginia and then proceed on to Falls Church, Virginia, to drop off a package of EYES ONLY documents at the U.N.C.L.E. laboratory. He was to subsequently meet up with Napoleon the day before the ball and attend the event, posing as hotel wait staff.

Before Illya left, Napoleon had joked with him about his very quick sounding, relatively pain-free boondoggle down to West Virginia and Falls Church, while he was forced to spend time in the company of the older woman with the bad breath, hawk nose, and beady eyes. That had been the last time he he’d seen or talked to his partner as Illya had failed to both, make the drop at the Falls Church U.N.C.L.E. lab, and show up for his undercover assignment at the hotel.

Now Napoleon was at the ball, outwardly watching the special entertainment, but inwardly worried about his wayward partner.

As predicted, the senior THRUSH agents were having a great time laughing and trying to figure out the identities of the unnamed agents, much to the chagrin of the individuals whose follies were being showcased in front of the THRUSH organization.

The first scenario had featured two junior THRUSH partners traveling in a car out to a secluded location. They'd been on their way to rendezvous with an U.N.C.L.E. agent for a clandestine meeting. On the way there, one of the unidentified THRUSH men developed a sudden need to use the facilities at an old, barely functioning gas station. After an inordinate delay, and fearing a missed meeting, the other agent, who also happened to be a glory-seeking hound, had signaled his partner that he was going on and that he’d pick him up on the way back. He met with the U.N.C.L.E. operative, but unfortunately, for the THRUSH man left behind, his partner forgot all about him and failed to pick him up. At the time of the affair, local THRUSH Headquarters authorities had not been amused by the display of unprofessionalism. They’d forced the stranded agent to walk nearly 20 miles along a deserted country road before sending a car to retrieve him. Months after the fact, everyone but the unidentified young agents found the incident uproariously funny.

“It’s Murry!” someone had called out.

There were snickers and someone else had yelled, “No, it’s Davenport and Porter.”

It had gone on until the correct agents were identified, and then they moved on to the next incident which involved a scientist by the name of Dr. Phoenix. According the to background information displayed, the purported genius was working on behalf of THRUSH, without success, on an way to harvest human eggs from a woman, fertilize them, and place them back into the woman for full gestation. The idea was to implant multiple fertilized eggs from specially selected males and females in order to breed a generation of specially trained THRUSH operatives the fastest exponential way possible.

Napoleon found the idea totally and typically THRUSH ludicrous. He wasn't a scientist, and still, even he knew that such a thing would never be possible. Nonetheless, his interest was piqued and he had paid particular attention to the new scenario, not caring about the junior agents being made fun of for their apparent directional ineptitude. Napoleon had previously been unaware of this man, Dr. Phoenix, and his diabolical project, and he was certain he'd hit upon something that would necessitate future U.N.C.L.E. action.

A photograph flashed on the screen - it showed the startled faces of two junior THRUSH agents who, instead of going to the Dr. Phoenix's home in Falls Church, had gone to the wrong house in the wrong neighborhood known as Spring Falls. The agents stood outside a dilapidated house. In the doorway, six Negro children, all appeared to be under the age of six, stood crammed together, looking just as startled at the sudden appearance of the white THRUSH operatives. A photograph of the outside of the actual stately-looking home of Dr. Phoenix flashed up for contrast, and the audience laughed uproariously at the mistake the bumbling agents had made.

Napoleon Solo, had he not been burdened down by his ever-increasing sense of worry for Illya, most certainly would have found that funny.

He didn’t even crack a smile.

Instead, he sat rooted to the spot - his mind was busy turning over the piece of information he’d seen in the photograph, trying to work out its significance. He’d seen Dr. Phoenix’s address. Dr. Phoenix lived in Falls Church. Illya was supposed to have gone to an U.N.C.L.E. lab in Falls Church. Dr. Phoenix’s address wasn’t far from where the U.N.C.L.E. lab was - in fact, had Illya actually made it to the lab, which he had not, he most likely would have taken a route that would have taken him right by Dr. Phoenix’s home.

The show was only half-way over, when Napoleon realized he could no longer stay at the ball. His unease over Illya had grown to an unbearable degree such that it overcame his sense of duty to remain.

Napoleon was a man who had survived as long as he had in such a dangerous job by his wits, skill, and luck and by listening to his finely tuned intuition. He didn’t always understand that intuition - that little voice that whispered "duck" when one moment it was clear and the next his head would have been separated from his shoulders. It wasn’t necessary. Illya was the other half of his soul, the better half of his soul - and he was in trouble. If there was any chance at all that he was being held in Dr. Phoenix’s home, then he was fast running out of time. Solo felt the full weight of his conviction, and he was suddenly gripped by a most uncharacteristic panic.

That was how Napoleon Solo found himself willfully making an unauthorized excursion away from the Four Seasons Hotel to get back that which belonged to him.

Waverly would probably dismiss him, Solo thought fatalistically. The Old Man suffered neither incompetence nor flagrant displays of emotion leading to acts of insubordination.

The moment Solo realized his stalwart, reliable Russian partner was incommunicado and had not been seen for three days, he’d chaffed at the time he’d lost - first in not realizing that Illya was missing because of duties that had taken them to separate places, and then in not being able to do much about it once he did know.

When Solo had pressed Waverly on the issue, the man had simply harrumphed in what passed for him as a sound signifying sympathy. He’d  
stated, “Mr. Kuryakin, is a trained agent, one of the best I’ve ever seen.” The wise gray-blue eyes in the leathery face blinked. “No, he doesn’t need me to send down other agents to look for him. Other agents in the area will only end up alerting THRUSH to our presence.”

Solo had bitten his tongue to keep from reminding him that at a gathering of THRUSH agents, they had no delusions that some in their number would, in fact, be infiltrating U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Apparently, Mr. Waverly was also a practical man. Illya Kuryakin was an U.N.C.L.E. investment, and the shrewd old man wasn’t about to let him go without a fight before getting the maximum return on his investment. Thus when Solo made what he thought was a discreet withdrawal from the festivities he was followed by two men who, fortunately for their continued good heath, quickly revealed themselves to be local U.N.C.L.E. agents, Beams and Archer.

Mr. Waverly had coordinated with the U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC office and as a result, and unknown to Solo, Agents Smithfield and Evans had been assigned the task of finding Kuryakin, while Agents Beams and Archer had been assigned the task of assisting Napoleon Solo in his duties at the ball.

Napoleon stared the two agents down before addressing them. His dark eyes flashed fire, and his tone was hard and no nonsense. “I’m going to find my partner. If you’re not here to help, you’d better stay out of my way.”

Archer and Beams looked at each other and in one accord, silently departed the building rapidly, following behind the senior agent’s long strides.

TBC

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Phoenix stopped humming and gazed down into the pit to observe the only thing left that was still visible of Illya Kuryakin. Like a plant pushing up through the ground towards sunlight, one pale, long-fingered hand stuck out in contrast to the dark dirt, a defiant symbol against death even in its abject stillness.

With a satisfied smirk, Dr. Phoenix flipped the switch down to the off position on the dirt blowing machine. The soil ceased to spew out as the red glowing lights dimmed and the machine’s low humming and vibrating died out, leaving the basement as quiet as a tomb for a moment. Finally, Dr. Phoenix’s smug voice broke the silence, “Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Kuryakin, and U.N.C.L.E. agents, too.” 

It was the last thing that Dr. Phoenix clearly remembered before hell descended on him.

 

********

With speed and stealth, Agents Beam and Archer followed Napoleon Solo into the house. Lights were on inside, but the house was silent. Obeying Solo’s hand signals, the agents fanned out, Beam taking the steps leading up to the upper floors and Archer taking the ground level. Napoleon, his weapon held at the ready in a strong, steady hand, took the steps leading downwards. Where are you, Illya?

Solo’s hazel eyed narrowed and his senses were on full alert as he descended the stairs, and he ears began to pick up faint sounds coming from room beyond the half-cracked opened door. One step, two, then three more and he was at the bottom, not sure of what he was hearing. Something mechanical was apparently on, but he couldn‘t place what it was. He heard someone humming and the hair on the back of the his neck stood up. Solo also heard laughing that he could only describe as disturbed. Yes, if there was demented humming and disturbed laughter, then Illya was there.

The machine quit its noise; the humming and laughter stopped. Then Solo heard, a male voice say, “Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Kuryakin, and U.N.C.L.E. agents, too.” Upon hearing that, Solo quickly pushed open the door and stepped inside. 

He saw a Dr. Phoenix, his grey hair streaked with dirt, standing at the edge of a pit that looked to be four feet by ten feet wide. Unobserved, Solo advanced closer until he too, could see into the pit. 

The fury that gripped him at the sight of the still white hand poking up through the dirt swept over him in a horrific tide. That was Illya’s hand. He didn’t need Dr. Phoenix to tell him that. He knew the beauty of its grace when it had occasionally stroked his face, having forgotten itself in unspoken longing for that which Napoleon had denied. He knew that long-fingered hand when it had killed to save his life, as well as share its strength with him when he’d been injured, ill, or God help him, in need of rescue. 

And now he might be too late. The man he loved may have been snatched from him forever, gone to his death alone, thinking his love had not been returned. The maniac had buried him alive. How much had Illya suffered? Had he cursed Napoleon's absence, even the very man himself, or in his final moments had he cried out his name in one last vain attempt for help?

Later, Napoleon Solo would only recall what happened next through a distorted memory, seen through a vague, red-haze. 

With deadly accuracy, Napoleon spun the mad scientist around, and the full force of his fist connected with the man’s face in a most satisfying, bone crunching manner. Napoleon put the man’s lights out and turned as Dr. Phoenix collapsed in a heap upon the floor. 

The man’s body hadn’t even reached the floor completely before Napoleon was in the pit, yelling for Beams and Archer.

Napoleon was desperate. How long had Illya been without oxygen? The world collapsed until all it was, and all it would ever be, was this man in this pit needing to be dug out. 

Beams and Archer flew down the stairs and into the room. They spared the unconscious Dr. Phoenix only a glance before standing to gape at the sight of the legendary, unflappable, suave U.N.C.L.E. New York CEA. 

The man was digging frantically with his bare hands, trying to release a buried man they deduced could only be Kuryakin. “Help me!” Napoleon yelled. “We’ve got to dig him out, now! Dig, damn it!” 

Beams sprang into action, grabbing a shovel and joining in the desperate rescue. The thought that this was surely a recovery effort and not a rescue was one he wisely kept to himself. 

Meanwhile, Archer used his communicator pen to summon an ambulance via headquarters. Then Archer leaped in and began digging too.

“Hurry, hurry!” Napoleon urged on. There was a hint of madness in those eyes that focused with single-minded determination on freeing his partner.

They uncovered the top of the Illya’s head, the dirty blond hair like a beacon to Napoleon. He dug with renewed fury until he uncovered Illya’s face.  
Napoleon’s heart lurched in his chest with the anguish he felt at the sight of the much beloved face, bloodless, unanimated, the sapphire eyes closed.  
It was clear the slight Russian wasn't breathing.

“Illya, Illya,” he moaned in deep, distressed denial.

But he didn’t stop digging and neither did Beams nor Archer. 

********


	3. Chapter 3

"Dig faster! Faster!" Napoleon yelled. His arms were becoming like rubber, the muscles weakening under the extreme stress. He was breathing hard like a locomotive, and sweat poured from his face and ran in rivulets down his forehead and neck. They’d only been digging for a minute in the soft soil, but to Napoleon it seemed like hours.

Moments later, Illya's body was unencumbered by the dirt from his waist up. The three men worked even more frantically to release his legs, not even noticing that one leg was badly broken.

Archer had been closer to the edge of the pit and so he was the one who had scrambled back out first, anticipating the total liberation of Kuryakin’s body. When it came, he grabbed Illya under the armpits, pulled him up and out, then laid the still body down. Like a bloody infant emerging from the womb, Illya Kurykin was pushed, pulled and tugged naked and covered in dirt from the pit. But no gasp of breath, no cry of life followed. Illya lay still upon the cold floor of the basement - free, but lifeless.

Solo and Beams scrambled up just as Archer bent his head to the still chest go to check for a heartbeat. There was none. “I’m sorry, Solo -” Archer was cut off as he sorrowfully looked up and straight into the personification of grim determination itself. Solo shoved Archer unceremoniously out of the way. In a move the two other agents had only vaguely heard about, they watched as one of the greatest U.N.C.L.E. agents of all time, sealed his mouth to the mouth of his fallen partner and began to forcibly blow air into his lungs.

Solo, like a man possessed, looked up and yelled, “Start chest compressions!”

Beams and Archer backed up, looking bewildered. He wanted them to do what? Once during a voluntary first aid training session, they’d heard about a cardiologist named Leonard Scherlis who wanted all U.N.C.L.E. agents to be trained in something he dubbed “CPR.” It was rumored that Scherlis and Waverly were good friends and that as a favor to Waverly, Scherlis had come and conducted training personally for all U.N.C.L.E. New York agents. But as for Beams and Archer, two agents from the DC office, they’d yet to receive such training.

Solo’s discipline and training totally took over, and he began chest compressions himself, alternating them with breaths of air into his partner’s mouth. He could do this. He would do it every single damn day for the rest of his life if it meant bringing Illya back to life.

But Solo was only a man, not a machine. He was teetering on near exhaustion, and his limbs were beginning to rebel at obeying his commands.  
He'd pump Illya's chest and blow air until he, Napoleon himself dropped dead, for death with Illya was preferable to life without him and being forced to live with the knowledge of how Illya had died and the cowardice of how he himself had lived: too afraid to admit that he felt the same way that Illya did for him.

Tears of frustration, tears of anguish rolled down Napoleon's face and he sobbed brokenly as he collapsed over Illya's body.

******

It pleased Fate that day to breathe life into that thin hope in hell that these two men just might indeed die of old age in comfortable beds, surrounded by a loving wife and wailing grandchildren.

  
*****

The faint dissonant sounds of an ambulance siren could be heard over Napoleon's sobs. It got louder and louder until it stopped right outside the house. Just as the wailing sirens ceased, Illya's body arched and he gave a great pain-filled gasp, struggling and flailing his arms and legs around as if still clawing his way through the dirt tomb.

“Illya!” Napoleon cried. He couldn’t believe it. Illya was breathing again, the stout Russian heart once again pumping blood through his body. At first, Napoleon, the normally unflappable agent, was too acutely astonished to do more than hold the struggling body in his arms. Then he realized that if he didn’t get Illya calmed down soon, he was most likely going to further damage his leg.

Napoleon grasped the pain-filled face in one hand, and with the other, he brushed the loose dirt away. “Illya, open your eyes. It’s Napoleon.” He coaxed him again, "C'mon, Illya, you can do it."

Archer respectfully turned his rapt gaze away from the unfolding drama. It was understood that something intensely private and intimate was passing between the partners. It was not for the gawking eyes of others to observe. Beams, however, continued to stare and he was just a fraction too slow in wiping a smirk, just shy of outright disgust, off his face before Archer noticed.

Archer's ire rose. He met Beams’ eyes, then nodded his head pointedly in the direction of the stairs leading out of the basement. Beams understood the unspoken message: go escort the ambulance crew down here - now.

Beam took the stairs two at a time. Meanwhile Archer took off his coat and placed it gently over the nude form that was still gasping for air and shaking violently within Solo’s embrace.

Napoleon spared him a grateful glance at the thoughtful action. Archer gave a small nod of encouragement. Any agent would look to the preservation of another sick or injured agent’s modesty, and they would expect the same in return if the need arose.

Napoleon continued to hold Illya and murmur soothing words of comfort as the violent tremors racking the slight frame of the Russian began to slack off and his lungs remembered the simple act of breathing again.

“Open your eyes, Illyusha, you’re safe now,” Napoleon encouraged, but Illya’s eyes remained tightly squeezed shut, his eyelashes caked with loose dirt particles.

“Nyet,” the Russian mumbled, the lapse into his mother tongue signifying to Napoleon that his partner was not yet oriented to the here and now.

Once again, Solo tore his gaze away from Illya to address Archer. “Archer, could you wet your handkerchief please and give it to me?”

Archer reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. There was a sink in the corner of the basement and Archer hurried to do Napoleon’s bidding.

Solo took the wet handkerchief from Archer and gently began wiping off his partner’s face. Napoleon brushed his fingers along the planes of that beloved visage, the high-cheekbones and broad forehead, the sensual mouth with the pouty lower lip.

Mere minutes ago there had been hatred, violence, and borderline madness in his heart that he knew surely must have shown through his eyes. Now as he held Illya in his arms, he was feeling a keen sense of relief and a indomitable will to protect and cherish the life that he’d snatched right out from death’s clutches. But overriding the nearly overwhelming sense of relief was that certain feeling he’d closed his heart off to for so long. It moved in like a tidal wave, stamping out any doubts and fears he once had of admitting that he loved Illya in the same way that Illya loved him.

On a dark, cold basement floor where Illya had come back to him, love was transforming Solo. Napoleon was certain his eyes were telegraphing his feelings loud and clear. He was right.

And he was not ashamed.

That was the sight that greeted Beams and the ambulance crew when they entered the basement, the crew carrying a stretcher between them. Beams kept his expression carefully neutral. However, days later, when Beams would have lunch with a table full of his fellow agents at the U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC office, he would recount with a great deal of derision, how obvious it was that the great, suave, legendary womanizer was in love with his male partner.

Archer, who would walk up to stand silently behind Beams, looked down at him in disgust. “I bet if you live to be a hundred you’ll never have _any_ woman look at you with that much love and devotion as Mr. Solo did Mr. Kuryakin.”

The agents at the table would consider Archer’s words as if weighing and measuring their veracity against the sometimes insufferable personality of the smirking Beams. Having found Beams wanting, the laughter would not resume.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Just two I decided to dust off a few old pieces of MFU art, done many years ago and start posting them in a few chapters just to give my MFU art a different home since I'm not sure if I'll continue with my art and fanfiction website after this summer.

 

 

  
Awareness was beginning to return and with it came an intense flair-up of the pain of his broken leg. Illya grimaced in agony and he struggled to open his eyes. He hurt everywhere. Where was he? What had happened? He felt strange. He was confused and in pain, but at the same time, he felt the strength of strong, comforting arms cradling him.

He heard a vaguely familiar voice, as if coming from a great distance, urging him to open his eyes. It was a male voice whose strong tenor could not disguise how gently and tenderly it spoke to him. Did he know that voice? Surely he was not awakening to the horror of some THRUSH torture chamber - his name sounded so safe coming from the mouth of the man who was holding him.

Illya tried to pry his eyes open and failed dismally. The voice close to his ear spoke again, asking for a handkerchief. The timbre and pitch of the unknown voice which that had recalled him from the grave began to sharpen and coalesce into the beloved voice of Napoleon Solo. He felt a cold, wet cloth moving gently over his face, paying particular attention to his eyes.

The hand with the cold cloth ceased its ministrations and moments later, Kuryakin opened his eyes and looked straight up into the face of the man whom he loved more than his own life. Napoleon's face was besmirched with black dirt. His hair, which he always kept so perfectly groomed, was in total disarray, and his tuxedo looked completely disheveled, not to mention caked with filthy dirt.

Napoleon's rough outer appearance was not what captured Illya's attention. It was the strange, rapt way in which Napoleon was gazing at him. It was a look of love. Napoleon was looking at him not with a, “this-is-my-best-friend kind of love”, but rather a, “this-is-the-person I want to give my heart and body to” love. His face was like an open book and Illya had read all the pages there many times, but he'd never read this...no, never this.

_Napoleon has much changed, or I am dead and the angels here are dirty._

Great joy and great doubt warred for dominance within Illya. Unsure, Illya settled for the reconnecting with the familiar. "Napoleon," he said weakly. The blond looked squint-eyed at Solo's ruined tuxedo, "I've never seen you look so atrocious in a tuxedo. Your standards are slipping."

Solo did a great job of looking both amused and vexed at the same time as he ran one dirty hand through his dark brown hair. "Looks who's talking, Tovarisch. Your standards can't possibly get any lower than they are right now."

Illya, with Napoleon's help, raised his head and looked down the length of his body that, for naught but a uniform jacket, was naked. Illya had the grace to blush, close his eyes, and lower his head with a groan.

Just then the ambulance crew stepped in. Napoleon reluctantly loosened his hold upon Illya and moved aside to allow the men to do their job. He felt bereft without Illya in his arms and he knew Illya must be feeling the same as he observed the Russian’s startling blue eyes snap open at the loss of contact.

"What happened here?" asked one of the medical crew as the other quickly and efficiently began to check Illya's vitals.

"His left leg is severely broken and he was buried alive, in...in there."  
Napoleon forced himself to look at the pit where his partner had almost died. Did die, Solo mentally corrected himself. "His heart stopped, he wasn't breathing. I don't know for how long."

The early moments of levity had passed and the full weight of the horror of the preceding events fell upon Napoleon like a ton of bricks. Illya had died and would have stayed dead if he had not abandoned his assigned duty. With his own two hands he had dug him out of a suffocating grave. He’d hit Illya’s chest until he’d beaten the Russian’s heart into submission. His lungs had provided the air that inflated Illya’s when his own had failed.

The last dregs of the adrenaline rush that had sustained Solo dissipated. Suddenly, he was as a puppet cut loose from the strings that gave him animation. The wall the agent was leaning against became the only thing that kept him from making a graceless tumble to the floor. As it was, he merely slid down until his rear reached the back of his heels. _Oh God_.

“Are you all right, Mr. Solo?” Archer asked, his young face registering genuine concern.

Napoleon nodded his head. That was hardly convincing, he thought. “Yes, I’m fine,” he followed up to boost his credibility. He simply sat and watched while the medics worked with speed and efficiency to prepare Illya for transport to the local U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. An oxygen mask was fitted to Illya’s face and an IV line inserted into his arm. Napoleon’s heart ached to hear the moan of pain that escaped Illya’s lips as his horribly swollen left leg with the bone sticking out was carefully immobilized with splits before he was lifted unto the stretcher and covered up with warm, thick blankets.

Napoleon staggered up from the floor and lurched over to Illya's side as the medic began to carry the stretcher with its precious cargo up the stairs. He longed to take Illya's hand and give it a comforting squeeze, but it was impossible. The straps that held Illya securely to the stretcher were over the heavy blankets that covered him up to his neck. Instead, he leaned over and spoke quietly saying, "Don't worry, I'll be right here." The senior agent knew how much Illya hated to be hospitalized.

Just as they were making their way to the front door, two black sedans and a van carrying U.N.C.L.E. agents pulled up. The agents swarmed out like flies. One older agent stayed behind and approached Solo and Archer, who had also come up. "Good job on you, Archer," the man said by way of a greeting to his colleague. He turned his attention to Solo. "I'm Steven Hopkins. I'm in charge of the clean-up operation."

Napoleon wearily stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Then he excused himself, anxious to get into the ambulance and ride with Illya to the infirmary.

"Where is Dr. Phoenix?"

"He's lying unconscious downstairs in the basement." Napoleon didn't waste another second. He walked off and made his way to the ambulance bay. Inside, Illya's stretcher was being locked into place.

Napoleon was about to climb inside when, much to his annoyance, he found Archer at his heels calling his name in a low, urgent voice.

Napoleon schooled the impatience from his features. "What is it?" he managed to ask in what could pass as a civil tone.

Archer looked uncomfortable and reluctant to speak. Napoleon frowned. "Dr. Phoenix isn't unconscious,” the younger agent spit out.

“He’s dead. You killed him.”

  
*******

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many years ago I received this note from the son of a real-life person mentioned in Chapter 3. It still makes me smile to this day:  
>  _iRomanse ; Mon 3/17/2008 2:05 PM_  
>  Hello, Romanse, I just wanted to let you know that I was delighted to  
> discover (via google alert) your mention of my father, Leonard  
> Scherlis M.D., in "The Misplaced Agent Affair Part 3."
> 
> _And your mention was very appropriate to my dad's intent. He_  
>  certainly didn't discover "closed chest massage," which had been  
> mentioned in medical documents for generations. But he did push the  
> populist agenda of making this technique available to everyone, not  
> simply the medical establishment. 
> 
> _So thanks very much for that. My father died over a year ago,and  
>  this was a pleasant reminder of him, and his values._
> 
> _And also, of course, your work brings back memories of watching "The_  
>  Man from U.N.C.L.E." when I was young, and that sort of show could be  
> aired without irony. 
> 
> _Best regards,  
>  Dan Scherlis_


	5. Chapter 5

Napoleon Solo hated roller coasters. The constant turns, the height, and sudden plunges put his heart in his mouth and his guts somewhere north of his chest. Illya’s death and resurrection had been like a giant roller coaster ride from which he’d thought he had disembarked. But now shockingly he found that he was back on it. Such was the effect of Archer’s words on him.

Solo’s olive complexion paled, and he shook his head in denial. He’d punched Dr. Phoenix in the face. Hard. He meant to do that. He had needed the mad scientist out of the way. That was all. It was strictly against U.N.C.L.E. rules of engagement as well as Napoleon’s personal code of honor to kill an unarmed man, an enemy who had given up, or to kill in order to extract personal vengeance upon even the most deserving villain.

But Solo remembered the red-hot rage he’d felt at seeing for himself the manner of Illya’s death. You wanted to kill him, his treacherous thoughts betrayed him. “Dead?” Solo asked Archer, wanting to cling to a hope that he’d misunderstood the man.

Archer looked grim and slowly nodded his head. Then he looked past Solo into the waiting ambulance where the medic inside was looking out impatiently at the two men. Archer saw the shocked look in the CEA‘s eyes and was moved with compassion. “Mr. Solo, you’d better get into the ambulance and go on to the infirmary now,” he urged. Hanging around here would only result in questions and endless delays which of course, meant that the senior agent would be separated from his injured partner. There would be time enough for Mr. Solo to be called to answer for his actions.

“Thank you. You’re a good man, Archer,” Napoleon said quietly. He stuck out his hand and the man took it and shook it firmly. Then quickly, Solo leapt into the back of the ambulance. Archer closed the door and seconds later, the vehicle took off, sirens blaring.

  
*******

The stretcher bearing Illya Kuryakin was quickly wheeled into a private treatment room that was off-limits to Napoleon. Instead, he stood outside the door, peering in through the double windows. A doctor and a team of two nurses were standing by and Solo anxiously watched as the two nurses, along with the ambulance crew, carefully shifted Kuryakin from the stretcher on to the examination table.

Knowing that his partner was in good hands and that there was nothing at the moment he could do for him, Napoleon turned away, lost in thought, deeply troubled. Part of him was glad he was allowed no further into the treatment room. He didn’t think he could hide from Illya, the fact that something was wrong. His injured partner didn’t need to be burdened with any concerns about him when what he needed to do was focus on his own recovery.

Solo sighed. He had business to take care of. He needed to get news about Illya’s condition, report in to Mr. Waverly, and get cleaned-up and into a fresh set of clothing - all in that order.

News came thirty minutes later when one half of the double doors opened and the U.N.C.L.E. doctor walked through. The tall, grey-haired doctor approached Solo. He looked kind and competent, and Solo liked him at once. “You are that young man’s partner, correct?”

“Yes, I am. My name is Napoleon Solo. Mr. Kuryakin and I work out of the New York office.”

“I see. I’m John Stennis.” The two men shook hands. Stennis looked Napoleon up and down, but refrained from commenting on his appearance. He’d worked as an U.N.C.L.E. physician for over twenty years and was used to seeing agents in all kinds of conditions. He jumped into briefing the U.N.C.L.E. agent concerning his patient’s condition. “Mr. Kuryakin should make a complete recovery if all goes well. He’s dehydrated and we’re taking care of that with plenty of IV fluids. He’s an extremely lucky man that you got to him in time. He does not appear to have sustained any brain damage from lack of oxygen.”

“He’s being prepped for surgery right now as he sustained a rather nasty fracture of his left tibia that requires fixation with internal screws.  
He’s going to be down for a while as the leg must be kept immobile before he can even begin to think about rehabilitation.”

Visions of sponge baths and time spent alone with Illya immediately sprang to mind and for the first time since this latest affair began, Napoleon smiled a true smile. Then he realized that Dr. Stennis would think his grin totally inappropriate for the news he’d just been given.

Dr. Stennis, thinking Solo’s smile was one of relief, cautioned him saying, “We‘ve started Mr. Kuryakin on a course of anti-biotics to stave off infection. As you know, dirt carries fungi and bacteria. I understand that Mr. Kuryakin was buried in a dirt pit for some time with the edge of his tibia exposed. In cases like this, the risk of serious bone infection is quite high.”

Napoleon digested the information, his mind struggling to grasp the idea that Illya’s health could still be in danger. “Thank you, Doctor. He’ll be okay, you’ll see,” Solo said with forced confidence. _You just have to be, Illyusha_.

  
*******

Napoleon Solo made his way down the quiet passages of U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC. He was looking for the office of either Beams or Archer. It was not yet 9:00pm but, in his exhaustion, it felt much later. He was hoping to get his reporting requirements over soon so he could shower and shed his dreadfully uncomfortable, filthy tuxedo.

As luck would have it, he practically walked right into Archer as the other man was rounding a corner.

“Solo. You look terrible. Come with me to my office.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that very much.” Napoleon let Archer lead him to his office and within moments he was seated and speaking into his communicator pen.

“Open channel D please.”

“Waverly here.” The old man sounded irritated.

“I found Illya, sir.”

“Where was he, and what happened to the documents he was supposed to carry to the lab?”

Solo winced. “In Falls Church, sir. He was trapped in a pit dug in the basement of a mad THRUSH scientist by the name of Dr. Phoenix.”

“Good heavens!” Waverly exclaimed with no small degree of exasperation. “What on earth was Mr. Kuryakin doing there? And who is Dr. Phoenix and what mischief was he about?”

“Well I can tell you something about Dr. Phoenix, but I can’t tell you why Illya was there.”

“Why not? Is Mr. Kuryakin incapacitated?”

“No sir - well, yes sir.” Napoleon passed a weary hand over his face. “I didn’t get a chance to ask Illya - I was too busy bringing him back from the dead.”

“No need to exaggerate, Mr. Solo,” Waverly rebuked.

“I only wish I were.”

Then Solo proceeded to describe in detail how he had found Illya and what transpired after that, including the news of Dr. Phoenix’s experimental project and his death and his own role in it. Napoleon, his heart weighed down with guilt, waited for the Old Man’s response.

There was silence on the other end. Finally, with his usual brevity, Waverly spoke. “I see.” He paused and there was a brief silence again. “And how is Mr. Kuryakin now?”

“He’s been taken to surgery for his broken leg. The doctor said barring infection, he should make a full recovery.”

“You do realize, Mr. Solo, that under the circumstances, there’ll be an inquest into Dr. Phoenix’s death, not to mention possible repercussions from having abandoned your assignment?”

“Yes sir,” Napoleon replied resignedly. “I suppose you want me to return to New York at once?”

“Nonsense. Arrangements will be made to fly Mr. Kuryakin back to New York as soon as he’s deemed medically fit to travel. You will remain there and escort Mr. Kuryakin back in, I suspect, a day or two.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, well, perhaps the two of you can manage to keep each other out of trouble that way.”

Napoleon hated to feel the flush creep up his cheeks. “Channel D out.”

Solo put away his communicator pen and stood up to face Archer.

“I don’t advise that you return to the Four Seasons, so I’ve arranged for a car to take you to one of our nearby safe houses. You can shower there and find a change of clothes. Whenever you’re ready, the car can bring you back here to see your partner,” Archer said.

“I appreciate that, thank you.” Napoleon quickly took his leave of Archer, for he wanted nothing more than to get out of U.N.C.L.E. HQ and be alone with a hot shower and his morose thoughts.

  
******

Almost two hours later, Napoleon, freshly showered and clothed in casual pants, a shirt and sweater, paced the hall outside the infirmary, awaiting news on Illya.

Just when he was about to go in search of a coffee vending machine, Solo observed Dr. Stennis coming through the doors. Stennis gestured for Napoleon to enter.

Solo breathed a sigh of relief - Dr. Stennis looked pleased.

“How’s the patient doing, Doctor?”

“The surgery went well. His leg will be as good as new if he follows my instructions. I’ll contact Dr. Greenberg at U.N.C.L.E. New York to see about getting your partner home on a flight out of here tomorrow.” Stennis looked at the wall clock hanging over the nurse’s station and saw that it was after midnight. “Today, I mean.”

“May I see Illya now?”

“Of course. He’ll be waking up from the anesthesia soon. It will be good for him to see a familiar face. He’s in room four.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Solo started to walk off.

“Mr. Solo?”

Napoleon turned around to see Dr. Stennis looking at him compassionately.

“Yes?”

“You look much better than when I last talked to you, but you still look exhausted. I highly recommend that after you check in on your partner, you go and get some sleep.”

Napoleon didn’t have the energy to argue with the well-intentioned physician. He was going where he knew he belonged - by his partner’s side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any comments/Kudos!
> 
> http://romanseartfanfic.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Enjoy the ride.
> 
> http://romanseartfanfic.com

*******

Illya Kuryakin lay asleep in the hospital bed. Napoleon could see the shape of the heavy cast that encased his elevated left leg. An IV line continued to drip fluids and medication into his veins. The nurses had cleaned him up as best they could, but the customary sheen of the beautiful head of blond hair remained dulled from dirt residue.

Napoleon was not aware of himself crossing the room to stand by the bedside. He’d been standing at the door one minute, and the next, he found himself standing by Illya’s side, looking down at the face that looked so like a little boy’s in sweet repose.

Napoleon grabbed a chair and pulled it close to the bed before sitting down. Then with the gentlest of touch, he grasped Illya’s cold hand in both of his warm ones.

Even exhausted, he was mesmerized by the sight of their entwined hands.  
His hands that had labored to restore Illya back to life were the very same ones that had taken the life of an unarmed human being. Even if U.N.C.L.E. declared the death justified, Napoleon wondered, given his rage-fueled actions, if his conscience ever could.

 _I need you, Illya_. Solo’s head was nearly spinning from too many conflicting thoughts and emotions. He needed the pragmatism and good-natured sarcasm of the taciturn Russian to sort him out. But Napoleon had not wavered from his resolve to not burden the recovering man.

With a weary sigh, Napoleon leaned forward until his head lay on the bed on top of his crossed arms. One hand held stubbornly to Illya’s as he gazed hard upon the relaxed face before he began to speak in a low voice. For what Napoleon wouldn’t say to Illya whenever he awakened, he could express to him while he still lay asleep “I’m in trouble, Illya. I - I think I murdered a man. I’ve never been so angry, so out of control in my life. It’s just that, when I saw what he’d done to you...”

Napoleon closed his eyes and again he saw Illya’s hand sticking up desperately from the dirt, and the banked embers of rage flared up again. Then his mind played a cruel trick on him - he saw Dr. Phoenix cowering in a corner, begging for his life. Solo saw his fist connecting with Phoenix’s face, and he visualized the bones shattering and sharp fragments piercing the man’s brains.

What was that expression on his face? Had his lips curled up in cruel, soul-corrupting satisfaction at having enacted his own brand of rogue justice?  
And what of his future? Would the end result of an inquest into his conduct result in the loss of his job, or worse, a stretch in a prison cell? What about Illya? Would he still love him, or would his sapphire eyes hold him in contempt for what he’d done? This new phase in their relationship would be over before it really started and Napoleon didn’t think he could bear it.

The questions went round and round his head and he had no answers. Napoleon groaned and closed his weary eyes.

Then Morpheus called his name and Napoleon went to him.

  
*******

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep before he became aware of the sensation of a hand gently stroking his hair and the sound of his name being quietly spoken.

“Napoleon.”

Solo raised his head and blinked his eyes to clear them. A broad smile broke across his face when he saw the blue eyes of his partner looking at him with such a degree of unspoken love.

“Welcome back, Illya. How do you feel?”

Illya considered his answer for a moment, “I’m very thirsty but otherwise I’m fine.” He gifted his partner with a slightly lopsided grin. “The drugs here are better than the ones in the New York infirmary, Napoleon.”

Napoleon chuckled and then he hastened to fill a cup with water and assist Illya in taking a drink. When he was finished, Solo placed the cup back on the nightstand and resumed his seat and his hold of his partner’s hand.

Illya looked down at their clasped hands, accepting their symbolic significance without comment.

“What did the doctor say?”

Napoleon told him, and when he was finished, Illya was silent. He looked lost in thought. “Napoleon, you look far worse than I feel right now. Go back to whatever place you’re calling home for tonight and get some rest.”

Napoleon, who knew Illya so well, said, “Why? So I won’t know when you suffer nightmares from what that madman tried to do to you?”

“I thought I would die. Conveniently, I was wrong. Why should there be nightmares?” Illya asked gruffly to disguise his unease. Napoleon was annoyingly right - suffocating to death in the pit was the stuff of his worst nightmares, and he didn’t want to talk about it, much less have Napoleon witness him waking up screaming in the middle of the night as he relived it over and over in his dreams.

But Napoleon had other ideas. He jumped up and began to pace. “Illya, you can pretend that what happened to you was just a walk in the park, but I can’t. When I close my eyes, I see that pit Phoenix buried you in. Do you have any idea what it was like to see only your hand sticking up from the dirt?” The anguish in Napoleon’s soul showed on his face and through his eyes which were dark and intense.

“When we got you out of that hell hole you weren’t breathing! You didn’t have a pulse.! You were dead. Dead, Illya! But I breathed for you and I gave you chest compressions, and I swore that I would do that forever, but I didn’t. I was exhausted and I couldn’t feel my arms anymore. I tried to keep going. I swear I tried, but I couldn’t.”

Napoleon’s tirade came to an abrupt halt and he stood gazing down at his trembling hands with a look of such fear and loathing for the ending that almost was, due to the limits of his physical endurance.

Illya was shocked by Napoleon's explosive revelation. He had had no idea what had transpired during his rescue. The Russian looked at the proud, bowed head of the great Napoleon Solo and the realization that it was bent so because of him, humbled and grieved him at the same time.

“Oh Napoleon. I am sorry,” he said softy. “Come to me.”

Like a moth drawn to the flame, Napoleon moved close to Illya’s side again and sat down.

“Thank you, Napasha.”

And at last, Napoleon was lost in the sea of Illya’s sleepy blue eyes and he felt the tension in his body easing.

“Will you stay? It would help me sleep.”

Much calmer now for having shared his experience, Napoleon’s lips curved upwards in a slight smile. Illya had not asked him to stay for his own benefit. He’d asked him to stay to give him peace of mind.

“I’ll stay.”  
  
Illya wearily handed Napoleon one of his extra pillows, which the equally tired Solo gladly accepted so he could rest his head and upper body upon the edge of the bed more comfortably. Soon, they both slipped easily into sleep, each man guarding the other.

The nurses that came in and out of the room to attend Kuryakin that night worked quietly and efficiently around the sleeping men. A nurse retrieved a spare blanket and draped it around Solo, for as far as they were concerned there were two patients who needed rest and healing, and no one would disturb them while they were in their care.

  
It was late morning before Napoleon cracked an eyelid open. He groaned softly when he felt the stiffness in his neck as he sat up. He glanced over at Illya to find that his partner still slept the sleep of the blissfully medicated.

Carefully, Solo detached his hand from Kuryakin’s and stood up. He studied his partner for a moment, observing, with no small measure of satisfaction, how the color had returned to his face and how peaceful he looked. Evidently, the nightmares Napoleon feared would plague his partner’s sleep had failed to materialize.

Napoleon wondered at the uninterrupted sleep he himself had enjoyed. Not once had he awakened when any of the nurses, as surely they must have, had come in and out of the room to check Illya’s vitals and adjust the flow of his medication. He didn’t remember falling asleep with a blanket draped over him either. Solo made a mental note to send a bouquet of flowers to the night nurses.

Napoleon went into the bathroom to relieve his aching bladder and freshen up. When he emerged, he found Dr. Stennis standing by Illya’s bedside reading his medical chart.

“How’s he doing?”

“Very well,” Dr. Stennis replied, looking pleased. “There’s no fever, and his vitals are strong. The arrangements have all been made to fly him back to New York in an air ambulance this afternoon. Oh, and I’ve also assigned Nurse Jacobs to accompany you.”

“Good,” replied Napoleon. He was thinking how handy it would be to have someone help him with what was most likely going to be a surly Russian, unhappy about the prospect of being carted around like a sack of potatoes.

Then there was the matter of where Illya would stay for the period of time when he’d be forced to stay in bed, keeping his leg immobile. As far as Solo was concerned, there was no other suitable place but his fashionably furnished apartment.

Napoleon frowned. He should only be looking forward to spending private time with Illya, caring for him, and exploring the intimacies of a new romantic relationship with his very male partner. Instead, the specter of an inquest into Dr. Phoenix’s death upon his return to New York, hung over his head, leaching the joy of anticipation from him.

Napoleon refocused his attention when Dr. Stennis spoke.

“I’ll come back and give Mr. Kuryakin one last exam before we get him ready for transport. Why don’t you come and have some coffee and a Danish in my office? I’d like to go over some discharge instructions with you and get his meds ready.”

“I’ll do that, thank you. ”

Dr. Stennis ambled off, whistling a tune softly. Napoleon was just about the sit down and contemplate his future when he heard stirring sounds coming from Illya’s direction. He looked and saw Kuryakin’s head, with his dirty blond hair, shifting one way and then the other on the pillow before he opened his eyes.

Napoleon wiped the frown off his face and replaced it with a pleasant expression. “Good morning.”

The Russian’s eyes were clear, but there were tiny pain lines around his mouth and forehead. “Is it morning already?” Illya asked, his tone making it perfectly clear that he was displeased to find himself still the guest of the U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC infirmary.

 _Uh oh_ , “It was already morning when we last talked, Illya.”

“My chest hurts. What did you do to me, Napoleon?”

“Chest compressions,” Solo replied testily.

The memory of the past conversation appeared to return, and Illya gave Napoleon an apologetic look.

Solo sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. “Would you like to know the plans for today?”

“Yes, please.”

“We’re going home today. Mr. Waverly arranged for an air ambulance to fly us back to New York. Are you hungry?” Solo didn’t wait for an answer. “After breakfast, Dr. Stennis will come by and give you one last exam and then we’ll get you out of here.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Napoleon ignored his partner‘s sardonic tone, for he knew it hid the Russian‘s deeply-ingrained sense of unease at the prospect of being bedridden and dependent. “Now, partner mine, there is the matter of where you’re going to stay once the New York infirmary releases you.

  
Illya frowned. “Unfortunately, it will still be a few days before you’ll be allowed to be up and about on that bad leg of yours, so the best solution for you is to stay with me until you get the okay from Dr. Greenberg to use crutches,” Solo continued smoothly.

Kuryakin looked surprised to hear Napoleon’s proposal.

“It’s either that, or stay in the infirmary. There isn’t room for me in that place you call an apartment. Besides, your building doesn’t’ even have an elevator and you live three flights up.”

“I don’t need you to be my nursemaid, Napoleon,” the dour Russian objected, albeit only half-heartedly.

“I’m not. I’m your partner who’s helping you out of a jam the same way you would for me.”

Napoleon longed to run his hand along Illya’s face in a loving caress to emphasize his point, but even in an U.N.C.L.E. infirmary there were always select cameras monitoring events. Instead, he put all the sincerity and warmth that he could into his eyes and facial expression.

Illya took in that look on Napoleon’s face. His own expression softened as he teetered on the edge of the precipice, then fell in. “I’ll stay with you, Napoleon, and I’ll try not to be too much trouble.”

A slow smile spread across Napoleon’s face. “Then it’s settled,” he replied softly.

“Good. Now where is that breakfast you mentioned?” Illya looked grumpy again and even Napoleon could hear the sound of Kuryakin’s stomach grumbling. He was reminded that it had been a few days since his partner had last eaten.

Napoleon took pity on the hungry Russian. “I’ll go check on it.”  
A short time later Napoleon returned accompanied by a nurse carrying a breakfast tray.

Solo kept his partner company in companionable silence while the injured blond devoured his breakfast. It wasn’t until he had wiped up the last bit of scrambled egg with a dry piece of toast that Kuryakin looked up at Napoleon who was sitting with his elbows on the chair arms, his hands steepled underneath his chin. He looked troubled.

Illya’s brow furrowed. “Is everything all right, Napoleon?”

“Of course it is. Why do you ask?” Napoleon’s answer was a little too quick, too falsely nonchalant.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

*******

Illya hesitated in responding. Suddenly he looked shy and unsure. Something in the Russian’s eyes shifted. They’d not spoken out loud of love, and Napoleon had had hours to become accustomed to the fact that his partner was not going to die on him. There was time for reconsideration. The intense feelings brought on by heightened emotions could be examined rationally in the light of day. Napoleon was a man who had bedded hundreds of women - and he knew all their names. Why would he give that up to have a sexual relationship with another male? Had he wanted to care for him in his apartment as a preliminary act of contrition to atone for his eventual change of heart?

When he’d been lying there on the cold floor wrapped in Napoleon’s arms, love had seemed so close, so within his grasp that he would have gladly suffered the agony of the pit if he had known that being loved by Napoleon was his prize in the end. Had it all been an illusion?

“Napoleon,” Illya hesitated for a moment. It was difficult enough for him to speak out loud on the subject of love, and harder still to release Napoleon from the promise of love that he had unintentionally expressed. “The crisis is past. I will understand if you tell me that your feelings for me are not the same as what I feel for you after all.”

Solo stood up, moved the tray table over, and sat down on the edge of Illya’s bed all in one smooth motion. His face clearly showed his surprise and bafflement over Illya’s sudden declaration. “Why would you say that?”

“Is it true, Napasha?” Illya countered.

Napoleon said nothing, looking at Illya in thoughtful silence. When at last he spoke, he chose his words carefully, his deep brown eyes never wavering. “What is true, Illyusha is that in all the ways one man can love another, save one, I chose to love you. The other love chose me, and to continue to deny it is to deny myself. Illya, I don’t want to live that way anymore, and I’m sorry you had to die before I could accept the truth. I haven’t loved you physically yet, but when I do, everything that I am and everything that I have will be yours because I love you.”

Illya’s world tilted on its axis before righting itself. He had not been wrong after all. Napoleon loved him, desired him physically the way he desired him. The suave man of the world had saved his most sincere, expressive words of love and bestowed them on him, and in the process, he’d affirmed the permanence of what had passed between them in Dr. Phoenix’s basement.

Illya fell silent, helpless before the power and fire of Napoleon’s declared love. It washed over him like a wave of heat and it burned a path through his heart, destroying doubts, even the very shame he felt at ever having doubted Napoleon.

  
*******

A short time later, Illya Kuryakin found himself strapped to a gurney and being wheeled out of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters to the ambulance that would take him, Napoleon Solo, and Nurse Nancy Jacobs to the airport. Dr. Stennis walked out with them past the hidden underground emergency medical U.N.C.L.E. entrance to the waiting ambulance shook his patient’s hand. “Take care of yourself Mr. Kuryakin, and remember -”

“It’s very important to finish the course of antibiotics. Yes, I know, Dr. Stennis,” Illya interrupted. “I will and thank you.”

Dr. Stennis shook Napoleon’s hand as well. “Watch out for him, Mr. Solo and take care of yourself, too.”

“I’ll do my best.” Napoleon smiled warmly and shook the doctor’s hand.  
With a final wave, the U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC doctor returned to the infirmary while the small party made their way to the airport and on to their flight home.

On the relatively short plane ride to New York, Illya slept under the influence of a light sedative. In the meanwhile, Nurse Jacobs had turned her considerable grace and charm on Napoleon, hinting that she would be in New York overnight and how nice it would be to have a dinner companion to keep her company and show her the sights.

Any other day the good nurse’s shapely physical assets and sparkling personality would have drawn Napoleon like a moth to a flame. Unfortunately for the comely nurse, Napoleon had Illya in his heart and too many things on his mind to even pretend to flirt with her using the famous Solo charm.

Nancy looked disappointed at his lack of chivalry, but Napoleon hardened his heart and did not nip at the bait. Instead, he pulled out a paperback novel that Archer had given him and tried to read it. Napoleon found his mind wandering in a most annoying fashion. He couldn't help but think about what awaited him once he’d arrived at U.N.C.L.E. New York.

The least of his worries were the required written reports that he’d be forced to prepare. This time, the senior agent wouldn't even have Illya to type up the reports for him as was their custom, for of the two men, Illya was by far, the more proficient typist.

Then there would be debriefings and he, as would Illya, would undergo separate, extensive oral questioning. He wasn't looking forward to having to explain the unexplainable. No matter that his actions had saved the life of U.N.C.L.E.’s Number Two, Section Two. It was a fact that he had abandoned his assignment without authorization. It was a fact, that he’d been in a rage when he’d struck Dr. Phoenix a killing blow while the man had posed no immediate, direct threat to him.

Then there was the matter of Illya’s capture enroute to his assignment. As the senior agent, not to mention Illya’s partner, it was his responsibility to know how and why Illya had come to be Dr. Phoenix’s victim. He still didn’t know as he’d not asked Illya during his time of treatment in the infirmary

Napoleon sighed. His list of professional deficiencies marched across his mind in a parade of shame. There was not much he could do about the other matters, but he vowed to at least get the story from his partner once Illya had been ensconced in the U.N.C.L.E. New York infirmary.

Solo looked over at the sleeping form of Illya Kuryakin, and he soothed his troubled thoughts by losing himself in the captivating sight. He’d always thought Illya a good-looking man - good looking in a way that was very different from his own looks, which he acknowledged without a shred of vanity, were dark, bold, and highly masculine. Illya’s beauty was most definitely of a manly caste as well, but his was wrapped in a cloak of litheness and grace that Napoleon could never possess and only admire.

Illya’s smooth skin, his high, Slavic cheekbones, and eyes the color of clear sapphire took Napoleon’s breath away. He’d seen them constantly over the last few years, of course, but never this way. Never through the eyes of love and sexual desire.

And Solo highly desired Illya.

He wondered what it would be like - to taste that mouth with the sensuous lower lip, for Illya to grant his hands free rein to touch and explore his slender body - a body that contained so much steel-like strength. Napoleon’s mind could not even fathom what it would be like to have his own naked body on top of and inside Illya in the ultimate act of intimacy.

He sighed and closed his eyes as he realized that that was something he’d have to wait patiently for until Kuryakin’s leg healed sufficiently to be rid of its cumbersome cast. In the meantime, there would be plenty of other ways for them to explore each other - assuming of course that a stretch in a jail cell was not in his future.

The thought brought an abrupt end to Napoleon’s pleasant fantasizing as the reality of his situation intruded once again.

For the remainder of the flight, Napoleon Solo turned his face towards the window and looked out, his gaze steady but seeing nothing.

  
*******

Napoleon sat in his customary chair in front of Alexander Waverly’s round-table desk. The U.N.C.L.E. New York CEA wondered why for the first time ever, the chair he’d sat in hundreds of times did not feel comfortably familiar.

He’d just come from the infirmary, having taken the time to see that Illya had been delivered into Dr. Alan Greenberg’s competent hands. While he was there, Kuryakin had awakened and Napoleon had seized the opportunity to conduct the necessary debrief. Afterwards, he’d come straight to Waverly’s office where at the moment the Old Man was engaged in a telephone conversation. While he waited, Napoleon replayed his conversation with Illya in his mind...

_Earlier in the U.N.C.L.E. Infirmary_

Napoleon stayed out of the way as Dr. Greenberg’s staff transferred the sleeping Kuryakin from the gurney to a hospital bed. At the same time Greenberg accepted the package containing Illya’s record of treatment and his x-rays, from Nurse Jacobs.

Both Napoleon and Illya respected Dr. Greenberg. He was an intelligent, compassionate physician who always took the time to get to know the agents requiring his medical expertise. He had reason to know Solo and Kuryakin better than others as unfortunately, they were the two who most often had need of his hospital beds and medical services.

“Napoleon, I’ll be right back. I want to take a good look at Illya’s x-rays.” Dr. Greenberg turned to the lovely Nurse Jacobs. “Are you returning to DC right away?”

Nurse Jacobs glanced sidelong with doe eyes at Napoleon before answering. “Actually, I’m staying overnight in New York and leaving in the morning.”

“An evening in New York City. Good for you. When you get back to U.N.C.L.E. DC headquarters, be sure and give John my best. Tell him I’m still looking forward to that round of golf he owes me.”

“I’ll do that.” Nurse Jacobs replied pleasantly, even sparing a friendly nod at Solo, though he had left her disappointed. “Good bye Mr. Solo. Tell Mr. Kuryakin it was a pleasure taking care of him.”

Solo smiled charmingly. “You only had to put up with him for one night, but nonetheless, I will tell him.” The gallant man within Napoleon chided him on his shabby treatment of the beautiful, young woman. He took Nurse Jacob’s hand and smoothly gave it a debonair kiss. “You are an angel of mercy. Enjoy New York and have a safe flight back.”

Nurse Jacobs blushed in a manner Napoleon thought rather fetching. Then  
Dr. Greenberg, x-rays in hand, escorted Nurse Jacobs down the hall and out of the ward.

Left to his own devices, Solo went over to Kuryakin’s bedside and gently shook the arm of his sleeping partner. Eventually Illya stretched in response and began his journey back to the waking world. After a few seconds, the blond’s eyelids fluttered, then opened to reveal glazed-looking blue eyes.

Napoleon smiled at Illya, but it was an ineffective cover for the seriousness that shone through his eyes. “Illya, welcome home. It’s about time you woke up.”

One corner of Illya’s mouth lifted in a sleepy smile. “You must excuse me; I found the conversation lacked that certain...stimulating quality.”

Napoleon wondered - if Illya had had the ability to read his mind during the plane ride, would he have found his erotic thoughts stimulating?

There was silence for a moment before Illya became fully awake to ask, “Where is the good doctor?”

“He’s reading your x-rays. He’ll be along shortly. Illya,” Napoleon changed the subject abruptly, “I need to know what happened to you. How did you come to find yourself in Dr. Phoenix’s home when you were supposed to be on your way to the U.N.C.L.E. lab with classified documents?”

Illya grimaced and looked decidedly reticent to have Napoleon debrief him.

“I thought I already told you that,” he muttered.

“No, I’m afraid not, partner mine.” Napoleon said sympathetically. Clearly, his Russian partner felt a high degree of professional embarrassment about how he’d ended up in a place other than where he was supposed to be. “Just tell it to me now, and I’ll get one of the steno girls to come here and record your statement later.”

Illya’s expression turned resolute as he asked Napoleon to raise his bed so he could sit up. Napoleon did and sat back, waiting expectantly.

Kuryakin sighed and then he began his tale. “I flew to West Virginia where I rented a car before I picked up the classified documents, as directed. Then I began the drive to Falls Church. I drove for hours, and I drank a lot of coffee on the way. By the time I reached the outskirts of Falls Church, I badly needed to use the facilities and buy more gas for the car, so I pulled into the first gas station I saw.”

“At least somewhere reputable like an Esso or Shell station, I hope.” Napoleon, who abhorred using gas station restrooms, quipped drily.

Illya responded positively to Napoleon’s attempt to inject some levity into the debriefing. He raised an eyebrow and replied with his familiar sarcasm, “No, unfortunately, Napoleon, it was the local ‘Stop-N-Rob’. You would have been appalled.”

Napoleon’s smile was quick but fleeting. “What happened next, Tovarisch?”

“The question is, ‘what happened while I was otherwise occupied using the facilities?’”

“I’ll bite. What happened?”

“Of all the random gas stations I could have picked, it would have to be the one that served as a front for local THRUSH agents. Dr. Phoenix kindly clued me in to what happened at the station while he was practicing his ‘hospitality’ on me.” The disgust on Illya’s face clearly showed what he thought of Dr. Phoenix’s hospitality. “He told me that one of the agents recognized me and called the doctor to alert him to my presence. Anyway, I paid for my gas and left.”

“Hmmm...an U.N.C.L.E. agent inadvertently walks into their lair, and they don’t detain him or search his car while they were servicing it.”

“They didn’t take the documents, if that’s what you’re getting at. I had them on my person. And would you please not interrupt me - I’d like to get this over some time before my leg heals.” Illya replied sourly.

“Okay, okay.” Napoleon soothed the testy Russian.

“They knew exactly what they were doing. I had no way of knowing that I was on the road that would pass directly by Dr. Phoenix’s home - I’d never even heard of the man before. And they had no way of knowing that I didn’t know. But the THRUSH agents assumed U.N.C.L.E. had sent me there to try and stop Dr. Phoenix’s diabolical experiment.”

Illya paused and shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Then he continued. “The men alerted Dr. Phoenix to the fact that I would be driving on that often deserted road to his house. I learned later that THRUSH agents activated a spike strip that punctured a hole in one of the car tires.

This was the point in the story where the proud Russian agent stared at a point located somewhere above Napoleon’s head. “I got out of the car and opened the trunk to get the spare and the jack, but there were none there.”

Illya seemed to muster his self-discipline to force himself to look Napoleon in the eye. The blue eyes that met Napoleon’s were filled with embarrassed, self-recrimination. “How could I have been so stupid as to not check the rental car before I took it from the lot?”

“It could have happened to anyone, Illya.”

“It happened to me, and I should have known better. Had I been more diligent, I would not have been forced to seek help at the nearest house.”

“Dr. Phoenix’s, no doubt?”

Illya sighed. “Yes. I went like a fly right into the spider’s web. I knocked on the door of a perfectly nondescript house, and this harmless looking old man answered. When I asked if I could use his phone to call for a tow truck, he was most gracious. And what service station do you suppose I ended up calling, Napoleon?”

“There’s a negligible degree of Machiavellian brilliance to that,” Napoleon remarked without having to answer the obvious.

“Don’t worry, it gets worse. Dr. Phoenix was very good at presenting himself as the lonely professor type. While I was waiting for the tow truck that was destined never to arrive, he offered me good conversation and a cup of tea - drugged tea. By the time I started to feel most unwell, it was too late.”

Illya, who had lived through the experience, sounded as if he still couldn’t believe it.

He licked his lips, and suddenly a minute tremor passed through his slender body. “I lost consciousness. The next I knew I woke up, feeling confused and dizzy due to the drug and the fact that I couldn’t see since I’d been blindfolded. At that point, I didn’t even realize my clothes had been taken.  
“I barely had time to take in the fact that I was sitting in a chair with my hands bound behind me when two people on either side of me grabbed my arms and forced me to stand.”

Then I felt a tremendous push and suddenly I was flying through the air in the darkness.”

Illya’s voice became soft and Napoleon leaned forward to hear him better.  
“Like Icarus, it seemed as if I flew forever. Of course, it was only seconds before I landed hard and felt the bone in my leg snap.”

Napoleon winced in sympathy.

At that moment, Dr. Greenberg, accompanied by a nurse, reentered the ward, interrupting Solo’s debrief of Kuryakin.

“Ah, Illya, you’re awake.” Dr. Greenberg frowned as he observed his patient’s face. “How do you feel?”

“I’m feeling fine,” Illya lied. “When will I be able to leave?”

Before he responded, Dr. Greenberg spoke softly to the nurse at his side and she promptly left.

“Possibly after tomorrow. Don’t be in such a hurry to get out of here. I’m sure Dr. Stennis explained to you the severity of the break and the high risk of infection. As displaced fractures go, yours was one of the worst I‘ve seen. You need to be on IV antibiotics for a while before I send you home to bed rest.

While the doctor had been speaking, the nurse returned with a medicine-filled syringe, which she injected into Kuryakin’s IV port.

“Dr. Greenberg,” Napoleon spoke up, “far be it from me to interfere with your medical duties, but would you mind granting me a few minutes more alone with Illya so that we can finish the debriefing?”

“Certainly, Napoleon, but just don’t tire him out. I have a few tests I’d like to run.”

“Thanks, I won’t.”

Dr. Greenberg and the nurse withdrew from the ward leaving Napoleon alone once again with Kuryakin.

Solo looked at his partner. The next part of the debriefing would no doubt be unpleasant for him. If it were in his power to spare him having to recall the ensuing horrific events, he would. “Do you need anything before you continue?”

“No thank you. I’d just like to get this over with.” Illya looked composed; the pain had faded from his eyes, but his face had paled noticeably. “I removed the blindfold when I managed to get my hands free; the tape was not all that tight. I could see that I had landed in a pit, in some sort of basement, but I was unable to get myself out. I found it - very difficult to move.”

Napoleon knew his partner was greatly understating his reference to the agony he’d been in due to the size of the jagged hole his broken tibia had made through his muscles and flesh.

For the thousandth time, Solo fervently wished Dr. Phoenix alive - this time so that he could shove him blindfolded, bound, and naked into a pit.

Illya continued, “Then Dr. Phoenix came. He stood at the top of the pit gloating down at me. He told me that he knew I was an U.N.C.L.E. agent sent to do him harm. I didn’t bother to deny it; he had my credentials and my weapon. As for Dr. Phoenix, I knew eventually I would learn the truth of who and what he was. It’s been my experience that THRUSH minions are rather fond of boasting. Anyway, he started to interrogate me, demanding to know what information U.N.C.L.E. had, and how did we acquire it. He asked the same questions over and over for which I had no answers. It hardly mattered though, he got nothing from me, but eventually he told me his name and also that he was a scientist. Later, I was able to manipulate him into revealing the nature of his experiments.”

“That must have made him very angry.” Napoleon noted grimly.

“Yes,” Illya kept his reply simple, not wishing to think, much less tell Napoleon about the pain from his fractured leg that had seemed to increase with every passing hour, or how long Dr. Phoenix had forced him to go without badly needed water, or the hunger pangs that had gnawed at his insides, or how cold he’d been without his clothes.

He didn’t want to think about how gradually it had become apparent, through his red haze of pain and thirst, that Dr. Phoenix was quite thoroughly mad. Frustrated at having gotten no answers from him, the doctor had left off questioning him and embarked upon a campaign to satisfy his own sadistic streak, while simultaneously causing his death.

The diabolical scientist had begun to ramble on about common phobias and all the inventive ways they could cause a person’s death. The idea of burying a human being alive was particularly fascinating to him. Even so, he had no idea that such a death had long held so much great personal terror for Illya Kuryakin. It was pure luck that he’d put in motion a plan to kill the U.N.C.L.E. agent that brought to life his most deepest, highly secret, inner fear since childhood.

Illya had no desire to tell Napoleon about how the doctor had rolled out a machine and how dirt had begun to spray out into the air, falling like black snow down on top of him.

But he did.  
  
He told his partner everything. He relived the horror of dragging himself upright, of fighting to try and move his body to keep the dirt beneath him - in effect - swimming towards the surface as much as he could, for as long as his waning strength held out.

It was as though he could feel again his chest being compressed, his eyes dimming, and his ears and nostrils filling with dirt. He closed his eyes. He was dying again - and he despaired. Illya moaned and clutched at his heavily casted leg. Though the recent injection of morphine had dulled the pain in the damaged limb, a phantom pain arose to thrust him well and truly into his waking nightmare. He began to pant, desperate for air he could no longer find.

A voice that sounded like Napoleon’s, called his name from afar. A detached part of his mind considered that curiosity. Surely, Napoleon wasn’t with him? Why did he hear him now?

“Illya! Look at me!” Napoleon’s voice was sharp and tinged with fear as he watched Illya being dragged down into his terror.

Illya’s eyes snapped open and suddenly he could breathe again. Though he could not entirely halt his trembling, he knew where he was. There was no more pit, suffocation, and pain. There was only Napoleon. There was only always Napoleon.

The man he loved was looking at him with such concern, such unbridled anguish, that Illya could scarcely bear it. He reached out a shaky hand and grasped Napoleon’s tightly. “I’m all right, _Moya l'ubov'_. It’s over.”

The anguished, worried look slowly faded from Napoleon’s face. “Yes, it is. It will take time before it leaves you totally. In the meantime, you don’t always have to be the stoic Russian. You know that don’t you?” Napoleon’s warm brown eyes seem to embrace Illya.

“Yes, I know that, Napasha. Thank you.” It was true, Napoleon was the only person who could be trusted with his moments of vulnerability.

Napoleon gave a light squeeze to Illya’s hand. “I appreciate you filling me in on what happened,” he said in a low voice. Though he looked reluctant to do so, he released the hand he still held and stood up. “I really need to report to Mr. Waverly now.”

“Give him my regards.” Illya was pleased to hear how steady his voice was in the aftermath of recounting the deeply traumatic event.

He had no delusions about the debriefing. Napoleon had done his duty as Section One, Number Two, but he would still have to relate the events to the person Napoleon would send over later to type up a written report. Then there was the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist who would no doubt, be required to poke and prod at his psyche before certifying him mentally fit for the field.

Subsequent tellings would only get easier. This he knew from experience.  
In time, he would shed both the physical and mental reminders of his ordeal.

Feeling uncharacteristically optimistic, Illya closed his eyes and lay back to await the return of Dr. Greenberg and his tests.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any who read: thank you
> 
> http://romanseartfanfic.com


	8. Chapter 8

_ _

 

_U.N.C.L.E. Washington, DC_

Agent Beams walked the corridors of U.N.C.L.E. Washington, appearing for all the world that he was making his way to his office. But that was not at all his true destination. Indeed, he had a different place and sinister purpose in mind.

Along the way he passed Agent Archer, who was walking in the opposite direction. Archer was not wearing his customary suit; instead he was dressed in casual slacks and sweater. That was always a reliable indicator that he was either on his way out of the building, or on his way to an assignment requiring long-distance travel.

Beams schooled his features into a passable smile, though goodwill towards Archer was far from what he harbored in his heart. He was still smarting from his perceived humiliation in front of his colleagues the day Archer had called him on daring to mock the great Napoleon Solo for his obvious, deviant tendencies. Sure, the others had turned the tables and laughed along with Archer, at him, but what did they know? Archer was a rising star in U.N.C.L.E. Washington - the table full of junior agents had no choice but to suck up to the pompous bastard.

Oh, how little the fools knew. They didn’t have a clue that right there in their midst was a THRUSH operative, and in Beams' opinion, he was a better U.N.C.L.E. agent than any of those legitimate, incompetent ones.

“Where're you off to, Arnie?” Beams greeted his fellow agent with no trace of rancor in his voice, though it hadn’t kept him from using the nickname that he knew Archer hated.

“Some little island in the Mediterranean.” Archer grinned enigmatically, then looked hurriedly at his watch. “I’ve got to get out of here now if I want to catch my flight. Say, Jerry, can you do me a favor? I don’t know when I’ll be back. Can you hand-carry my after action-report with you when you go to U.N.C.L.E. New York to testify at Solo’s inquest? It’s in my top desk drawer.”

“Sure, I’d be happy to do that for you.”

“Great. You’re a stand-up guy - most of the time, Jerry.” Archer said good-naturedly. He walked off, never seeing the utter glee that spread over Beams' face.

  
*******

A short time and a surreptitious route later, Beams made a stealthy entrance into the deserted morgue where the still untouched body of Dr. Phoenix lay on a cold slab behind a closed drawer. He knew the medical examiner would commence an autopsy soon, and it was imperative that he carry out his THRUSH-issued orders before that happened.

Beams looked around with distaste. This place gives me the creeps. The sterile green walls, the faint lingering aroma of chemicals, the low lighting that gave the place a particular unsettling quality, made him grit his teeth and move quickly to accomplish his task.

There were six body storage units, and Beams had no idea which one held Dr. Phoenix’s body. He pulled open the top left drawer with his gloved hands. No body. Then he pulled the left bottom one. It too was empty. The third try yielded positive results. He’d pulled out the bottom middle drawer and confirmed that the sheet-clad occupant was indeed his quarry. Working quickly, Beams pried open the mouth and shoved in a dental tool designed to keep the jaws apart. Then he shone his flashlight into the orifice.

Peering inside, Beams saw it - a cracked molar on the lower left side. The artificial tooth whose hollow center had held one of THRUSH newest, most top-secret, deadliest inventions: a fast acting poison whose ingenious chemical composition was so effective, so efficient, that ingesting would cause death in seconds and be virtually undetectable by conventional toxicology analysis.

Intended for use as a suicide escape, in the event of capture and interrogation, the fake molar had instead been the cause of Dr. Phoenix’s accidental death when Napoleon Solo’s blow cracked it. The catastrophic failure sent the poison surging rapidly through the scientist’s system, killing him instantly.

U.N.C.L.E. must not discover the truth. Dr. Phoenix’s untimely death was an inconvenient loss to THRUSH, true, but it also posed a unique gift-wrapped opportunity for the organization to rid itself of the pesky fly known as Napoleon Solo.

Thrush had no such tiresome rules of engagement based upon antiquated standards of morality as did U.N.C.L.E.. Aside from contravening direct orders, a THRUSH agent extracting his own brand of personal vengeance upon an enemy would hardly be censured. Not so with U.N.C.L.E.. And if U.N.C.L.E. needed additional persuasive evidence that Solo had turned rogue and murdered Dr. Phoenix, then THRUSH was willing and able to supply it.

Beams balanced the flashlight on top of the corpse’s cold chest. Taking out his tools, the double agent went to work. With carefully applied force, he used his pliers to extract the cracked molar. He took care not to touch it as he dropped it into the open bag he had already pulled out.

Suddenly Beams froze. His heartbeat accelerated and his breath hitched sharply in his chest. Someone was walking by the closed morgue doors, the sound of the footsteps echoing with deceptively monstrous proportions. The U.N.C.L.E. medical examiner couldn’t be coming back from his meeting so soon; the information he’d gotten in his orders had been rock solid on when the man would be absent and for how long. Nervously, he switched off the flashlight and looked about for a place to conceal himself. Just then, the footsteps stopped outside the door. The moment seemed to hang in eternity until the steps resumed, the diminishing sounds indicating retreat.

Beams wiped at his brow that had suddenly grown moist with sweat. Shaking off his panic, he switched back on the flashlight. His eyes narrowed as he bent to his task again. This time he took out a replacement, an uncracked molar, coated on one side with a special adhesive. This he inserted into the vacant space in Dr. Phoenix’s mouth. Then he carefully applied pressure again with both hands to manipulate the mouth closed.

The deed was done. THRUSH would now have effectively erased all evidence of the exact cause of Dr. Phoenix’s death, and the intended result would be the effective termination of Napoleon Solo as an active field agent. Beams sneered gleefully. The thought of Solo being at least booted out of U.N.C.L.E. was just fine with him, especially given his own contribution to that end.

Beams closed the body drawer carefully, then made his way to the door, opening it slightly and peering out. The corridor was empty. Good. He took one last look around, and then he slipped through the door. Having restored the morgue to it's former dark and quiet state, it was as though he'd never been there.

The only witness to his visit had been the dead body of Dr. Phoenix. Fortunately for him, Dr. Phoenix wouldn’t be telling anyone.

  
*******

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

  
*******

Alexander Waverly placed the phone back in its cradle. Silently he reached for his pipe and went through the ritual of filling and lighting it. Then he took a few puffs before looking up. The bushy eyebrows raised as though he was surprised to find Napoleon Solo sitting across from him.

“Mr. Solo. I assume Mr. Kuryakin has been properly settled into the infirmary?”

_A softball question. Good_. Napoleon leaned forward comfortably. “Yes sir. The break is pretty severe as leg fractures go, but there’s no doubt in my mind that Illya’s going to be just fine.”

Waverly’s old, steely eyes gazed at him calmly. “Are you a physician, Mr. Solo?”

“Uh, why no sir.” Napoleon’s comfort level suddenly decreased.

“Then let’s agree to leave Mr. Kuryakin’s prognosis in Dr. Greenberg’s capable hands, shall we? At the moment I’m more interested in hearing how Mr. Kuryakin came by his injury.”

Solo immediately rendered his report. He was succinct, relaying only the essential details while guarding against revealing anything about his partner’s current emotional vulnerability. “I’ll prepare a written report later today,” Napoleon concluded.

“Very well, Mr. Solo.” Waverly moved on to the next issue. Before he spoke, he stood up and, pipe in hand, began a slow pace back and forth. It seemed to Napoleon that the Old Man’s demeanor grew graver than it already was.

“Your conduct during The Masked Ball Affair is problematic for your professional career, Mr. Solo, but it may very well be U.N.C.L.E. that ends up the ultimate casualty.”

Napoleon was fighting a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nonetheless, he looked his boss directly in the eye as he answered, “I did what I had to do to save Illya’s life. Can you honestly tell me had you been in my place you would not have done the same?”

“You are a trained, senior operative, destined one day to assume the duties for which I am currently responsible,” Waverly’s tone was hard and no-nonsense. “While Mr. Kuryakin’s rescue was a noble end, abandoning your assignment was not a justified means. The seriousness of this breach in protocol to this organization cannot be understated.” Waverly paused before adding, “no matter if my personal feelings indicate otherwise.” The quiet concession softened the hard tone of the censure but did nothing to quell the unease Napoleon was feeling.

Napoleon spoke carefully. “My assignment was to secure a way into the THRUSH ball in order to discover if there were people, plans, or projects that U.N.C.L.E. had no knowledge of. At the ball, I heard about a Dr. Phoenix and his bizarre experiments in human in vitro fertilization - none of which U.N.C.L.E. was previously aware.

It was that same man who all but murdered Illya. Sir, I can’t tell you how I knew that Illya was in his hands, or that he was moments away from death. I just did. Don’t ask me to apologize for leaving the THRUSH ball because I don’t regret it. I take responsibility for my actions and will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”

Waverly sighed. “You are mistaken if you believe your fate is entirely in my hands, Mr. Solo. On the contrary, this particular incident is part and parcel of the mandatory inquest into Dr. Phoenix’s death which U.N.C.L.E. regulations demand. If the board concludes that your actions in both incidents were sufficiently severe, willful violations of U.N.C.L.E. policy, then you may be subject to disciplinary action, up to and including firing or prosecution by the civilian authorities, though I rather doubt if the latter will apply.”

Waverly's thumb absently stroked alongside the lit pipe.

“Our men confiscated Dr. Phoenix’s notes and papers that were in the house," the Waverly continued. "However, some of the documents dealing with critical aspects of his experiment are undecipherable. Had Dr. Phoenix been escorted to a debriefing room at U.N.C.L.E. Washington instead of to the morgue, he would be, as we speak, subject to a thorough interrogation which would, no doubt, have yielded the answers that we lack. Unfortunately, he is maintaining a rather stoic silence from his current location.”

Waverly’s dour words burned Napoleon. He looked away, suddenly unable to look his mentor, the man who was the epitome of intellect and control, in the eye. His guilt reconstituted itself and raised again the specter of the deceitful, self-accusing voice that whispered half-truths. He hated feeling this way - oddly off-balance, unable to separate factual events from his convoluted reasoning and emotions when it came to his actions.

Mostly he hated feeling afraid. Afraid that his carefully cultivated professional control had been wiped out in the blink of an eye, and that the fallout from that lapse might cost him his career with U.N.C.L.E.. He felt like a knife was twisting in his guts. U.N.C.L.E. was so much an important part of his life. He’d given everything he had to the organization. What was he if he could no longer be an U.N.C.L.E. agent?

Napoleon was a man who was _born_ sure of himself. Every action was decisive, every one driven by both experience and sound judgment. Why then was he so torn and confused over what had happened with Dr. Phoenix?

Had he acted as judge, jury and executioner to satisfy his own need for retribution? After how he’d found Illya, how could he _not_ have wanted him dead and not merely temporarily incapacitated?

Dr. Phoenix, cowering? Unarmed? What difference did it make after he’d seen what the scientist had done to his partner? He’d thrown a punch so hard that it killed the man. Just as Mr. Waverly said, he’d not only violated U.N.C.L.E. rules of engagement and trampled his own personal code of conduct, his actions ensured that Dr. Phoenix took his scientific secrets to the grave with him.

A seasoned agent, Solo had suffered his share of failures from time to time, to be sure, but none had ever affected him quite like this.

Napoleon brought troubled eyes up to meet Waverly’s gaze. “He’s dead and the only thing I can tell you for sure is that I didn’t know I had killed him until Agent Archer told me. I don’t know if I intended to kill him. I need to know the truth and learn to live with it. But what I can’t, even in my worst nightmare, believe is that the organization that I have worked years for, believe in, and have given everything I have, would throw me to the wolves and end my career for the sake of a maniac like Dr. Phoenix.” Solo got to his feet. “You’ll have my written report before I leave this building today. I trust I’ll be notified as to the convening time and place of the inquest.”

“Indeed, Mr. Solo. Naturally your presence will be required so that you can testify - in the event that the autopsy fails to render favorable results, that is.” Mr. Waverly’s tone held just the right measure of compassion to let him know that he was taking no enjoyment from his top agent’s dilemma.

“In the meantime, take the week to see what work you may have at your desk.”

The final indignity. Of course he was grounded from the field until the results of the inquest. Napoleon took the news stoically before taking his leave of Mr. Waverly. “Yes sir.”

His spirits down, his countenance grave, Napoleon Solo walked down the hallway on his way back to the infirmary. He wanted to check on Illya quickly before going to their shared office to do some work. His mind was filled with troubling thoughts and as he obliviously walked past a gauntlet of several admiring U.N.C.L.E. female employees. As he did so, their warm greetings fell on deaf ears.

Before he knew it, he found himself standing in front of the double doors leading into the infirmary.

Napoleon pasted a smile on his face before entering.

  
*******

Two days later Illya Kuryakin was released from the infirmary.

Napoleon arrived early to take him to his apartment, which he considered to be far more comfortable than the spartan living conditions of his partner's. Feeling somewhat anxious, Solo felt infinitely better when he took a look at his partner.

Illya was ready to go. He was sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in the sweat suit that Napoleon had retrieved from Kuryakin’s locker. The Russian held a pair of crutches upright with the bottoms resting on the edge one of the chair’s footrests. The IV line feeding antibiotics into his veins no longer sprouted from Illya’s arm like an alien plant, and the day before he had shed the low-dosage morphine drip. The two bottles of oral antibiotics that he’d been given at the U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC infirmary had been returned to him with strict instructions to finish the prescription and to remain on bed rest with his leg immobilized until such time as he was graduated to crutches.

A short time later, Napoleon was pushing Illya’s wheelchair in what he knew, was a humiliating ride through the U.N.C.L.E. halls and out to the waiting taxi. Several times along the way they were stopped by female employees wishing the reserved, handsome blond well.

Napoleon inwardly grinned as Illya endured the hands that patted his shoulders. He was amused that he detected no hint upon his partner’s face that the feminine fingers that rumpled his thick blond tresses as though he were a child, annoyed him.

It was all in Kuryakin’s eyes. The orbs seemed to shift subtly from brilliant sapphire to something more akin to gray heralding a dark storm. Solo disguised an errant chuckle behind a false cough as he observed Kuryakin’s face blush when, as if by compulsion, one particularly besotted secretary kissed Illya on the cheek. The feminine attention that Napoleon had and still to some extent, would always enjoy basking in, was something Illya abhorred.

He knew exactly what his partner was thinking: when would these women with the heavy perfume, painted lips and fake platinum-blond hair take their manicured hands off of his person? He hid his amusement and kept pushing the chair. Soon the encounters grew infrequent the nearer they drew to the U.N.C.L.E. exit.

When at last they were alone in the halls, Illya craned his neck around to look upwards at Napoleon. “You can at least let me stop by my desk for a moment before you get me out of here and chain me to the bed, ” he grumbled.

“I think not. Are you trying to get me in more trouble than I already am?” Napoleon immediately wished he could take back his off-the-cuff remark, no matter how lightly he’d made it. Under the current circumstances, the Russian’s trait for discernment was rather inconvenient for Solo.

Illya glanced quickly back at him. His lips tightened almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing.

Seeing that, Napoleon let go of his delusions. Illya suspected something. Clearly, he owed his partner the truth, no matter how much he would just as soon not burden him with it. But Illya was well on his way to recovery and was going to be fine. There was no good reason other than his pride that should keep him from telling Illya he was to be hauled in front of a Board of Inquiry that could very well result in his career being permanently sidelined, whether or not he ever saw the inside of a civilian court room.

He made up his mind to talk to Illya once he’d gotten him safely to his apartment. Right now, getting him there, was job one. He would not have to immediately return to work either. Mr. Waverly had generously suggested that he take the week off, ostensibly to see to the welfare of his partner while he was incapacitated. However, Napoleon suspected that Waverly had favored him by providing a face-saving way of getting him out of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters for a while when he was suspended from being a field operative.

Having reached the receptionist’s desk, Illya and Napoleon turned in their badges. Then, with the help of a staff member who was waiting for them at the secret entrance to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, the men exited the building via Del Floria’s shop.

The taxi Napoleon had called was waiting out front. He’d left his sporty Pirhana at home, it being only a two-seater, was wholly unsuitable for transporting his partner with his broken leg.

“Your limo is here,” Napoleon commented lightly.

Kuryakin merely grunted. He seemed to be steeling himself for the ordeal of transferring from the wheelchair into the back of the taxi. It took some careful maneuvering, but before long Illya was settled in and the wheelchair was stowed securely in the trunk.

Napoleon observed Illya’s pale face and tight lips - the only sign that hinted at his discomfort with the transfer. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

_Of course you are_. Napoleon got in and quickly signaled for the driver to pull away from the curb.

Fifteen minutes and several traffic lights later, the taxi pulled in front of Napoleon’s luxury apartment building in Manhattan’s Upper East Side and the laborious process of getting Illya out of the cab and into Napoleon’s apartment began.

  
*******

Napoleon leaned over his partner to input the code that would unlock the door to his personal sanctuary. When the red light flashed indicating an invalid code entry, Napoleon grinned sheepishly and tried again. Illya, who knew Napoleon’s code just as Napoleon knew his, watched in silent irritation as his partner seemed to fumble nervously at the task he had performed thousands of times before.

Illya chafed at the delay. His leg was really starting to hurt, and all he wanted to do was get out of the wheelchair and lie down. _Why of all times, is Napoleon acting like fumbling youth bringing his date home for the first time?_ He’d been in Napoleon’s apartment more times than he could count - had slept over in his guest bedroom on more than one occasion as well.

The pain which had started out as only a dull reminder of the injury was now growing in intensity. He was reluctant to acknowledge it, and yet he was puzzled. _Why does my leg ache this way?_ Despite his rather high tolerance for pain, he’d begrudgingly given in to the nurse’s insistent warnings about cab rides on bumpy roads and sudden stops and had taken the offered analgesic an hour before he'd left the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. At the moment though, he would gladly have accepted a second helping.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Napoleon opened the door and pushed his chair inside. Wood lightly-scented and rich, supple leather were the dominating visual themes of the interior. The combination of dark, sleek Italian leather furnishings, smoothly polished hardwood floors, and subtle touches of brass throughout bespoke of masculine elegance that so very much reflected Solo’s personality. It was so very different from his own Spartan-like lifestyle.

No matter how many times he entered Napoleon’s apartment, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of the original awe he’d experienced the first time he’d entered his partner’s sanctuary. For that’s what it was for the suave agent. In a career that often placed them in situations requiring a great deal of physical discomfort and deprivation, over time he’d come to understand that Napoleon’s need for a luxurious environment was self-preservation and not a weak concession to hedonism.

On the way to the guest room, Napoleon wheeled Illya tantalizingly close to the couch that was situated a comfortable distance from the beautiful, wood paneled console television. Normally, he didn‘t care to watch television; he had only his books and record collection to entertain him at home. But being in Napoleon‘s home was different. The lure of the television was a decadence that even he found hard to resist. “I can rest here, if you don’t mind,” Illya spoke up.

Napoleon kept going. “I don’t think so. Dr. Greenberg ordered strict bed rest.”

“Must you be so literal? I’m not an invalid,” Illya snapped.

The chair stopped. Illya looked up to see Napoleon staring down at him incredulously. Solo didn’t say a word and Illya followed his line of sight that led straight to his heavily casted leg.

Illya blushed furiously and sighed. He had not meant to sound like a petulant child. His nerves were on edge and he had no idea why. “I did not mean to be difficult. To the bedroom, then.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Napoleon squeezed his shoulder gently and resumed the journey to the guestroom. It wasn’t long before Illya, redressed in a fresh pair of pajamas that had one pant leg split down the seam, was settled in the comfortable bed with a mound of soft pillows behind his back.

Illya watched without comment as his partner bustled around the room, bringing books, his reading glasses, a pitcher of water and a glass. Lastly, he brought the bottles of medications over. “There.” Solo placed all of the items within Illya’s easy reach on the nightstand.

“Is there anything else you need?” Having seen to his welfare and comfort, Napoleon now appeared to Illya as though he wanted nothing more than to leave the room before he could start up a conversation. But Illya was determined not to let that happen. Something beyond his own current state of health was bothering Solo. Duty to his partner suggested that he find out what it was and offer assistance. Love for Napoleon compelled it.

“Yes, Napoleon, there is.” He regarded Napoleon with serious eyes, eyes that held no judgment.

After a moment’s hesitation Napoleon carefully sat down on the edge of the bed facing Illya. Illya reached out and gently cupped the beloved face with one hand. He watched in wonder as the hardness melted from Solo’s face. The dark hazel eyes that regarded him back were suddenly unfamiliar orbs of confusion and vulnerability. He gently lowered his hand from Solo’s face and instead firmly grasped the ones that had saved his life countless times.

Napoleon took a breath before speaking. “I’ve been suspended from field duty pending an inquest into Dr. Phoenix’s death and my own actions during The Masked Ball Affair.”

Illya did his best to hide his shock at hearing that his partner, U.N.C.L.E.’s CEA, had been suspended. He was confused, having no clue as to what could have led to this. The fact that Napoleon had not told him right away he filed away to discuss later. His feelings were unimportant at the moment. “Napoleon, what are you talking about? Why would there be an inquest?”

Napoleon looked grim. “I...I apparently murdered Dr. Phoenix.”

This time Illya could do nothing to lessen the expression of shock on his face. He shook his head. “I don’t understand you Napoleon. I didn’t know that Dr. Phoenix was dead, but if you are saying that he died at your hands, then surely you did nothing wrong. You saw for yourself that the death he had planned for me was not exactly..." He fished around for the right word, “pleasant.”

“That’s just it, Illya. Because of what I saw he had done to you, I broke every rule of engagement, every lesson of hard training, everything I swore to uphold, when I killed him - and unarmed old man - in a fit of uncontrolled rage. I had in my hands a new, diabolical U.N.C.L.E. enemy, and I failed to deliver him alive for interrogation.” Napoleon’s voice was harsh, steeped with self-condemnation.

Illya’s heart ached to hear Napoleon’s pain. Still he was unable to make sense of what he was saying. “Napoleon. Start from the beginning and tell me what occurred.”

Napoleon did.

Illya heard about his partner’s growing feeling that he was in mortal danger and that time was running out. He listened without comment as Napoleon described how he had learned about Dr. Phoenix’s home and his almost precognitive knowledge that his missing partner was being held there. Napoleon did not hold back his description of being nearly sick with horror at finding him with naught but one hand projecting up through the dirt pit. Illya easily pictured everything in his mind by Napoleon’s graphic description. In his mind’s eye, he saw his partner spin the old mad scientist around, and with one powerful blow knock him out, in effect, delivering a killing blow.

At the end of the telling there were two men with two very different reactions. For one there were no falsely induced guilt feelings, only a sense of satisfied relief that Dr. Phoenix was dead. For the other, there was shame. Illya silently contemplated the cost of his relief. Had it come potentially at the end of his partner’s career? Imprisonment even?

Illya felt fatigue encroaching upon him, but with an iron will ignored it as he focused on Napoleon. He grasped Solo’s two strong hands more tightly as he spoke softly. “Napasha, our hands have shed much blood over the years. You know this. But your hands have never shed the blood of anyone who did not deserve death. You may have been angry when you struck Dr. Phoenix, but that is not the same as...as premeditated killing - that was not your intent.”

“Vengeance. The word is vengeance, Illya,” Napoleon answered softly.

“Hardly. If he died by your hand at the scene, then it was an accident.”

Laying his sympathy and anger for Napoleon’s plight aside, Illya considered his partner’s problem in a more analytical manner than his partner seemed oddly unable to do.

It was clear that there were two different issues to consider. The first being a definitive answer as to what precisely killed Dr. Phoenix. It made no difference to him that Napoleon assumed that his blow had ended the scientist’s life. He was convinced that the evidence would prove otherwise.

The second issue was far more problematic. Having autopsy results that cleared his partner was essential, but even if he had such results in hand at this very moment, he realized Napoleon had suffered a deep wound to his ability to trust his discipline and training. The result was that he was now second-guessing his performance as an agent.

Illya’s faith in Napoleon was unshakable, however. Not for a moment did he believe that Solo had violated U.N.C.L.E. rules of engagement or killed the mad doctor for personal vengeance. Over the years he’d certainly seen the worst of his partner just as he’d seen the best. Illya had no need to search his memory to know that nothing Napoleon had done in his U.N.C.L.E. career falling under the category of worst had ever come close to what he was being accused of now.

Yes, it was unfortunate that U.N.C.L.E. had not had the chance to interrogate Dr. Phoenix, but there was no guarantee that the old scientist would have told them anything anyway.

Illya felt frustrated. He hated not having the just the right words at his disposal to help Napoleon, the man he deeply respected and loved. He was a man who excelled at solving all manner of problems that required vanquishing foes using courage, cunning, and physical endurance. But picking his way through the minefield that was currently Napoleon’s mind, with skillful words was something he felt ill-equipped to do.

Intellectually, he understood why Napoleon was wracked by professional guilt and shame over Dr. Phoenix’s death. Each of them relied on his extensive training and self-control to not only get the job done, but to stay alive long enough to fight another day. The act of killing a high-value enemy prior to interrogation, even accidentally, was just as abhorrent to Illya as it was to Solo.

In his heart, however, he could not reconcile his own utter indifference to the man’s demise and whatever part Napoleon played in it.

At a loss as to just what to say he finally asked, “Did you feel vengeful before the moment you struck him, or did you feel it afterwards?”

Napoleon closed his eyes as though he were replaying the scene in his mind. The moment passed and then he opened his eyes and shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. I was angry the moment I saw him standing over the pit with you in it. I hit him, but I didn’t realize then that I had killed him. That’s the truth.”

“Napoleon, You have been angry before, and you will be again. That does not mean that in your anger you chose to strike a killing blow. If that had been your choice, then you would not have been surprised to learn of his death.”

He paused to gauge Napoleon’s reaction, but Solo's head was bent, a lock of his thick brown hair falling forward, shrouding his dark eyes. He could discern no response, so instead, he studied his partner’s strong profile, noting the unique formation of the bold chin which looked as though it had been carved from granite.

Seeing no response was forthcoming, Illya spoke again. “Neither one of us can count the number of lives we have taken. The fact that when you learned of his death you felt no satisfaction should prove that you did not kill him for vengeance.”

When at last Napoleon turned his head to look Illya in the eye, the Russian let out a breath that he did not realize he'd been holding. For in Napoleon's eyes, Illya perceived a lessening of the shame and confusion. His face wore a lighter shade of guilt and there was understanding in his eyes instead. This pleased Illya immensely.

"I think that you're right, at least about that last part," Solo conceded. "But -"

"There is no but," Illya affirmed.

"I was only going to say that if the autopsy reveals that Dr. Phoenix died as a direct result of the force of the blow I landed, then I will still have to deal with the consequences U.N.C.L.E. may choose to dish out."

Illya's face appeared to take on a hard, grim expression. "Then we will deal with it together, Napoleon." A look of understated relief stole across Solo's face, and Illya asked, "And you? Regardless of cause of death, do you believe it was an accident, not an intentional act?"

Napoleon didn’t answer right away. Instead, a moment or two passed before his lips curved slightly upwards in a self-deprecating smile. Solo looked at him. “Yes, I bow to your reasoning. Frankly, right now I trust you more than I trust myself.”

Illya reached out his arm and slowly drew Napoleon closer to him until they were face to face, noses mere inches apart. Blue eyes locked with brown ones tinged with shades of green. “Then trust me, Napasha,” Illya whispered gently. “You did nothing wrong.”

Napoleon took a deep breath.

Then he made his choice.

 

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't been posting any commentary of note regarding any art I've posted, but this one makes me recall how when I first posted it fandom-wide it was met with the deafening sound of silence. Shrugs...I never did and still don't all these years later know what was/is so bad about this picture.

 

 

*******

Having made his choice to let go of his confusion and self-doubt, Napoleon became keenly interested in the sensuous lips that were poised temptingly close to his. Slowly he moved forward to close the gap and capture Illya’s mouth with his own.

These were no feminine lips made ruby red through the careful application of cosmetics. Lips like those were the ones Napoleon was so accustomed to kissing. He was charting a course through unfamiliar territory, an explorer on a voyage of first discovery. _These are a man’s lips. No_ , he mentally corrected himself, _these are Illya’s lips I‘m kissing_.

With women he’d always been conscious of the unbalance of sexual power. That awareness encouraged him to enjoy playing the part of the gentlemen to the fairer sex, all the while keenly reveling in the joys of masculine sexual domination.

How different this was. Here there was no powerful male and a weaker female. There were only two men, each giving and taking in equal measure, masculine strength matching masculine strength.

Tongues tasted, twined, and danced within moist, hot caverns.

Sitting on the edge of Illya’s bed, Napoleon’s senses were on fire. His cock, growing rock hard in his pants, ached to feel Illya’s hand wrapping around it. Napoleon let his hand drift downwards towards his partner’s crotch and confirmed that Illya was feeling the same state of arousal.

Illya arched his neck and his head fell back against the pillow. A low moan, which so eloquently vocalized his desire, escaped his parted lips as Napoleon cupped and rubbed his partner’s clothed-covered erection.

Seeing his partner’s reaction turned Napoleon on even more. Mindful of Kuryakin’s injury, he leaned closer and began a slow unbuttoning of the blond’s pajama top. He parted the material, baring the deceptively slender shoulders, before pushing the shirt down around his waist so that Illya could pull his arms free.

Slowly, Illya lifted his hips and with practiced hands, Napoleon rolled the elastic of the waistband up, over and down the cast and free leg, thus divesting Kuryakin of the pajama bottoms. When Illya was once again reclining against the pillows, he sat back to admire his handiwork. Passion blazed within the dark eyes as he took in the sight of the nude form. The gift of Illya he’d long foolishly denied himself, now lay before him as an offering.

Bruised as he was on the left side of his body, Illya was still spectacularly beautiful to Napoleon. He couldn‘t help but frown though as the sight of the deep and painful-looking marks recalled to mind just how his lover had acquired them.

Illya’s eyes of sparkling sapphire were focused totally on him. As though wishing to divert his attention away from his bruised side, Illya gently turned Solo’s head upwards. “Take off your clothes, Napasha.”

Napoleon rose from his seat on the edge of the bed to follow Illya’s quietly spoken command, quickly stripping himself of his clothes until they lay in an inelegant pile on the floor.

Naked, he stood in proud silence before Illya. Taller than his fair-skinned Russian partner, his body was tanned, well-toned, and athletic. Broad shoulders and chest were well-balanced by a trim waist, a perfect size 38.

Napoleon followed the trail of Illya’s eyes, tracking the descent of the blue orbs until they stopped somewhere near the place where his penis jutted out powerfully from its nest of dark brown curls. The Russian was staring at him with a look of raw lust. He was to Napoleon like a starving man gazing at a feast - and he was the main entree. Napoleon’s heart beat wildly and he grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“You are beautiful, Napasha,” Illya breathed as he reached both arms out to grasp Napoleon’s hips to draw him close until the straining organ nearly touched his lips. Napoleon’s breath caught in his throat as he realized what Illya was about to do to him. Too few of Napoleon’s many female partners had ever been willing to perform this intimate act he found intensely pleasurable, and when it came to sex, he was a man who never begged.

Except when it came to Illya.

For this act from the man he loved, he would beg without shame.

There was no need to, for Illya, in one graceful motion, opened his mouth and enveloped the hard column of flesh. Napoleon gasped and shuddered from head to toe, lost in the exquisite sensation of Illya’s mouth pleasuring him. The Russian’s unusually large hands, perfectly capable of killing, were now gently cupping his buttocks, moving him in a rhythmic motion as Napoleon thrust over and over, seeking his release.

At first he moved with control, but the blond sorcerer before him wove a spell to urge him on until he gave in and began to move with wild abandon. His muscles rippled and a light sheen of perspiration broke out on his body making his olive-toned skin glisten.

Napoleon climbed higher and higher until finally, Illya’s tongue and lips drew forth a powerful orgasm that ripped through him, sending him hurtling through the stars. He tensed and with a loud shout of triumph, his body poured forth the thick libation of which Illya drank greedily.

Napoleon’s world became an exceedingly narrow one as he reveled in the sensation of his balls emptying. The sweet relief went on and on until Illya finally pulled away from the no longer pulsing organ, licking his lips.

Nearly senseless, Napoleon slowly dropped to his knees before sliding to the floor in a boneless heap next to the bed. Except for the sound of his heavy breathing, the room was silent. Vaguely, he wondered if Illya could also hear his heart pounding out a loud staccato beat.

When he came to himself, Napoleon became aware of his hair being gently stroked. In a daze, he looked up to find Illya looking down at him, love and passion in equal measure blazing in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

He worked his mouth, but nothing came out. On the second try he managed to breath out, “I’m more than all right. Thank you, my love,” he added, his voice shaky with raw emotion.

“Napasha...” Illya’s voice full of unspoken need, trailed off.

Everything, including Illya’s spread legs and engorged organ, came into sharp focus. Napoleon got on his knees, and reached for him, marveling at the weight and feel of Illya’s manhood. Now it was Illya’s turn to gasp and writhe in the strong grip. Fearing that he was causing Illya pain that would further aggravate his injured leg, he let go. “No” Illya moaned and began to buck his hip upwards in desperation.

Quickly realizing his mistake, Napoleon regained his grip and spoke soothingly to his partner. “Shhh. Easy now. Let me do all the work here. Just lie back.”

With a low whimper, Illya lay his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes, losing himself in the delicious friction of Solo’s hand.

He wondered if he should reciprocate the fellatio, but Illya was panting and calling out in Russian words Napoleon did not understand. “Do you want something else, Illyusha?”

Barely coherent, the slender man cried out, “ _Nyet, nyet_.”

Napoleon took great pleasure in the sight of his reserved, quiet partner writhing and moaning, deep in the throes of passion. The muscles of the slim body were straining. Illya’s nipples had hardened into rose-colored pebbles. Napoleon could tell from the clear fluid leaking from the hard flesh in his hand that it wouldn’t be long before Illya would climax. In turn, he felt his body becoming aroused despite the fact that he had just experienced the most powerful orgasm of his life.

While he stroked faster, he rose from his knees and leaned up and over his lover’s body to flick first one hard nipple, and then the other with his tongue. At that, Illya lost all control. His body went rigid. The organ in Solo’s hand pulsed strongly before an impressive quantity of semen erupted all over his pumping hand. As if overcome by the strength of his physical release, Illya quietly sobbed through his orgasm as he shook upon the bed.

Napoleon was profoundly moved as he bore witness to the depth of Illya’s emotions. He understood his partner well enough to know that what Illya had just experienced was much more than just an intense, physiological response. He suspected that what Illya had experienced was tantamount to a liberation of his soul, for his partner had received his heart’s desire - a longing so deep, but one which he’d resigned himself to being forever denied because of the hardness of his own heart.

Gradually Illya’s body slowed its shaking and soon ceased it altogether. The beautiful face whose features expressed such exquisite agony began to smooth and grow lax as he slipped into a state of sweet repose.

Napoleon walked to the bathroom, washed himself off quickly, and then brought back a warm, wet washcloth to clean his sleeping partner. When he was finished, and had tucked the comforter around the naked, slender form, he went to the other side of the bed and crawled beneath the covers. He thought he would drift off to sleep, but sleep eluded him. For a long time instead, he sat beside his partner a silent guard of Illya’s heart while he slept.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Morning had come, and for Napoleon Solo, it was more than just the dawn of a new day. He awakened to the world, stretching languidly like a great cat underneath the covers before slowly opening his eyes. Bright sunlight streamed through the cracks in the Venetian blinds. In the moments before achieving complete lucidity, he blinked in confusion. He’d slept in his guest bedroom. Why?

Solo turned his head upon the pillow and saw next to him the outline of a figure underneath the soft down comforter. The head belonging to said figure peeked out from the covers. Napoleon raised his head curiously and stared at the sight of tufts of fine, natural blond hair.

None of his bedmates in recent memory had natural blond hair; they all tended to come by their blondness with an assist from healthy doses of peroxide.

That head of hair belonged only to one person.

It was a new day indeed.

Smiling, Napoleon gently pulled back the covers to unveil his lover's face. The smile lessened somewhat as he noted the light sheen of sweat on Illya's face and chest. _He's overheated under that thick blanket. He must have gotten chilled during the night to have buried himself in the covers that way._

For a minute he debated waking Illya, then decided against it. Letting Illya wake up on his own after his body had cooled off some now that his head was no longer under the blanket seemed like a better way to ensure that his partner would wake up in a good mood.

Napoleon got up and padded to the bathroom to start his morning ablutions. By the time he finished he was feeling refreshed and hungry for breakfast. He quickly dressed in casual, but well-made clothing before heading to the kitchen to see what he could put together for the two them.

In short order he had assembled a tray for Illya laden with a heaping serving of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, fresh fruit, coffee and juice. He put the finishing touches on the meal then admired his handiwork, knowing that Illya, with his habitually voracious appetite, would enjoy it.

In the past, preparing breakfast in bed was something he was used to doing for his female conquests as the perfunctory concluding move in “the game”. This meal preparation was entirely different. Though he was hardly conscious of it, for Napoleon, it was more symbolic of his desire to share his life and his resources with his lover in whatever measure he required.

Napoleon brought the tray into the bedroom and set it carefully down on the nightstand that did not hold Illya’s meds, books and reading glasses on top. Illya showed no signs of stirring on his own, so he sat down on the edge of bed and gently shook the shoulder of the sleeping man. “Illya,” he called. He called his name again before Illya moved.

The blond head turned on the pillow and the eyelids opened and blinked several times. “Napoleon?” he inquired softly. This was immediately followed by another, more startled, louder rendition of his name. Napoleon smiled at hearing it.

“Yes,” he answered. He understood what lllya was asking.

“Oh.” Illya looked at Napoleon with guileless eyes, a contented smile slowly taking shape upon his lips.

Napoleon leaned forward and gently kissed Illya. Then he sat back and gazed at the face that still looked tired despite the hours of sleep. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Illya raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Napoleon’s lips curved into a sad, small half-smile before he answered, “I turned away from the love you offered me time and time again. What a fool I was. I wonder how you can forgive me for being so stubborn.”

“Easily, Napoleon,” Illya replied in a light tone. “I am far more stubborn then you.”

Napoleon grinned. “Death, taxes, and stubborn Russians - why stand in the way of the inevitable?”

“It’s fruitless,” Illya sagely agreed.

“Speaking of fruit, among other things, I have some here for your breakfast. Better dig in before the eggs and toast get cold.” Illya sat up and Napoleon fluffed the pillows behind his back.

“Thank you.” Suddenly, Illya’s face flushed red and he squirmed in the bed looking uncomfortable.

Napoleon instantly perceived the problem and wondered how much of a fight his reticent partner was about to put up. “Hold on, I’ve got what you need.”  
He went to the edge of the bed and reaching underneath, he pulled out a portable urine receptacle. Judging by Illya’s distasteful expression, he might as well have pulled out a THRUSH torture device. He sighed; the fight was on.

“Not that, Napoleon,” Illya stated and his face assumed a most mulish expression which on any other day, Napoleon would have found quite amusing. “Bring me the chair and I will wheel myself to the bathroom.”

“Illya,” Napoleon reasoned, not wanting to fool around with getting his partner in and out of bed when what he really wanted to do was assuage his hunger pangs. “I know this isn’t pleasant, I understand, but our food is getting cold and I’m hungry. Just let me take care of this and we can eat. Besides, you’ve endured a lot worse than this and so have I.”

Illya looked with longing down upon the tantalizing breakfast tray. His squirming increased before he gave what Napoleon could only describe as a ‘grumpy’ nod.   
  
Napoleon quickly lifted the covers away, and held the receptacle in place, all the while Illya looked away, a stoic expression on his face while he relieved himself.

When he was finished, Illya rested his head back with a small sigh of relief. Illya’s eyes still didn’t quite meet Napoleon’s. Napoleon took the receptacle away and the sound of flushing, followed by running water could be heard. Then he came back with a wet washcloth, which he gave to his lover with which to cleanse his hands.

Finally, it was time for breakfast. Once he’d given Illya his tray, he went back to the kitchen and fixed one for himself. Then he returned and side by side, they ate their breakfast in companionable silence.

When the last bite of food had been consumed and Illya was looking content as he often did after a good meal, Napoleon collected both trays and returned with an empty bowl, a cup full of warm water, and Illya’s toothbrush and toothpaste. Then Napoleon left again and came back with a bowl full of warm water, which he set down near the washcloth that he had brought over earlier.

Having set everything within easy reach of his partner, Napoleon left him to see to his own washing up in private while he himself made short work of cleaning the dishes. He’d just finished drying the last dish when he heard his name being called.

“What is it?”

“I’ve finished with the water and towels.” Illya cleared his throat. “I wanted to say thank you for the breakfast, and... for the other thing.”

“Don’t mention it.” Napoleon changed the subject as he saw Illya’s pajama top and bottom which lay in bunched-up heaps on the floor, where they’d apparently fallen during the night “One of us is a tad underdressed, better let me help you put these back on.” He scooped them up off the floor where they lay not far from his own pile of clothing which still lay where they’d been hastily cast off the previous night.

He handed the top to Illya who put it on. Then, using the same care in which he had divested his lover of the bottoms, Napoleon helped Illya put the pants back on over the thick cast.

No sooner had Illya finished redressing himself when there was a loud knock on the door. Illya glimpsed the dark and fleeting frown on Napoleon‘s brow and he looked inquiringly at Napoleon, but he merely shrugged before going to see who was at the door.

From the other side of the door, Napoleon heard clearly a familiar voice. “Open up! We’ve come to see the great Napoleon Solo who is said to have miraculous powers to raise the dead!” The voice was male, light-hearted, and thoroughly tinged with a healthy dose of merry old England.

Napoleon swung open the door only to see that he had not one visitor, but three. British enforcement agent, Mark Slate, and his beautiful intrepid partner, April Dancer, stood in the doorway, huge grins on both their young faces. Behind them stood a tall, thin man Napoleon did not know.

“Actually, it’s Illya Mark and I have come to see. We heard that you had a surly Russian staying with you.” April smirked, “Having to wallow in the luxury of your apartment must be an unbearable affront to his proletariat soul.”

Napoleon, happy though he was to see his close friends, had a bad feeling about the third element standing outside. Nonetheless, he swung the door open in a wide invitation for them to enter. He walked into the living room and called over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, his proletariat soul is in no danger of being corrupted. He’s on bed rest for at least the next day or two. After that I suspect he’ll catch the next hay wagon back to his own place.” Mark and April laughed while the three followed Solo into his living room.

Something about the light- hearted mood shifted and an awkward silence threatened to settle until Mark, looking meaningfully at him, cleared his throat and said, “Solo, this is Alistair McKinney - I believe you’ve talked on the phone.”

McKinney stood straight as an arrow, his hands clasped behind his back. His grey eyes in his sharp, pale face looked at Solo as though they were accustomed to nothing escaping their attention.

“Ah, Mr. Solo. Like it or not I’ve been assigned as your advocate for the Inquest. It’s imperative that you and I prepare because I may very well be the only thing that stands between you and the unemployment line.”

Napoleon grew instantly irritated. So this was Alistair McKinney. Of course he’d talked to him. This staid man with his pin striped suit and bow tie was the same one who had introduced himself over the phone as his advocate for the upcoming Inquest. He’d politely, but firmly told McKinney he had no need of his services, but the man would not take no for an answer.

Now the man was here in his living room, his nasally-sounding voice grating on his nerves.

April, with a knowing glance, caught her partner’s eye and while McKinney found himself staring down the inscrutable, hardened gaze of the man he was supposed to advise, she and Mark beat a discreet retreat in the direction of the spare bedroom.

*******

They found Illya sitting up in bed, listening intently to the goings on that could only be heard and not seen beyond the bedroom walls.

“So it’s true! Napoleon really can bring a man back from the dead!” Mark exclaimed jovially. Quickly he felt his partner’s elbow suddenly and painfully jab him in his ribs.. _No, I suppose our Russian wolf doesn’t want to_  
 _be reminded of his ordeal, now does he?_

He leaned against the wall and casually folded his arms.

April, her bright eyes sparkling, left her partner’s side to cross the room and sit down on the edge of the bed. She took Kuryakin’s long, cool hand in her feminine one and smiled charmingly at him. “What he means is, we’re really glad to see you looking so well, all things considered.”

“I am well, thank you.” Illya confirmed, but a large yawn seemed to belie his words.

He thought Illya looked rather peaked but he wasn’t about to ruffle either one of his friends by contradicting them.

“Who’s with you?” Illya asked.

“That’s Alistair McKinney, Napoleon’s appointed advocate for the Inquest.” April answered. “Did you know he’s been trying to get in touch with him for several days?”

Illya frowned. “No, I did not know that. Well, he has Napoleon’s attention now,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Hmm, maybe. I’ve seen Thrush agents piss themselves just from the very same look alone that Napoleon gave McKinney,” Mark declared

Kuryakin changed the subject. “So what have the two of you been up to?”

Mark exchanged a quick look with April before answering, “Balearic Islands. Ibiza to be more precise. We were sent to confirm the identify of a man on the island known as Elmyr de Hory.”

“Elmyr de Hory...” Illya’s face was blank before suddenly recognition dawned. “The art forger? Interpol and the FBI each claim he’s theirs and now U.N.C.L.E. wants him? Why?”

“Finders keepers,” Mark quipped, his tone serious. “As to the wherefores - sorry, the Old Man declined to share that with us. What we were told is that once we confirmed de Hory’s presence on the island, another U.N.C.L.E. agent would make contact with us and then we were subsequently to return to headquarters.”

April looked over at Mark with mock coyness. “Agent Archer showed up just in time. Posing as a jet-setting newlywed with Mark as my husband could give a gal ideas, you know.”

Mark chuckled and Illya sat up straighter. “Archer as in Arnold Archer from the Washington D.C. Office?” Kuryakin inquired.

“Yes, that‘s where he said he was from. How do you know him?” Slate asked, his own curiosity piqued.

Kuryakin looked reluctant, but he answered him based on the information Napoleon had related to him concerning both Agents Beams and Archer.

The two men continued to talk, both unaware that April Dancer’s attention had drifted elsewhere. She was in fact, staring raptly at the pile of clothing on the floor beside Kuryakin’s bed: trousers made from fine material, expensive tie, dress shirt, and shorts.

Silk shorts.

At that moment, several things happened at once wherein wildly impossible speculation and factual confirmation spectacularly collided. Dancer’s mouth suddenly dropped open. Illya’s eyes tracked Dancer’s gaze and stopped at the pile of Napoleon‘s clothes. Then April’s incredulous gaze, filled with knowing-yet-not knowing, shifted to Illya’s face. All conversation ceased as the Russian’s pale visage turned a bright shade of red.

‘You and Napoleon?’ April mouthed.

Baffled, Mark read April’s lips plainly. “You and Napoleon, what?” When neither one answered, he moved from where he’d been leaning against the wall over to the other side of Illya’s bed. Looking down he saw the pile of Napoleon’s clothes. His gaze went back and forth from April’s surprised face to Illya Kuryakin’s one of intense consternation.

Enlightenment fell like ten tons of bricks on the Brit. His blue eyes opened wide and he ran one hand through his blond hair. “Good God, man! You and Napoleon?”

For a moment there was silence. Then, “Yes. Napoleon and I are lovers.” Illya’s face turned hard and his eyes grew defiant, cold.

April recovered her composure first. She smiled slyly at Illya. “We’re happy for the two of you. Imagine that, Mark - while we were off playing   
honeymooners, these two were busy being the real thing.”

Slate looked on, amused by the sight of the normally unflappable Russian looking both desirous of the bed to open up and swallow him whole and fierce at the same time. A lover of women, Slate curiously found himself wondering why Solo had all the luck. _Knock it off, Old Boy_.

He decided to throw in his own words of support to his friend. “She’s right, you know. You both are our friends. If you love each other, then that’s the way it is. It’s nobody else’s business and if someone tries to make it theirs then they’ll have to go through me and April first.”

Illya said nothing. Instead, he stared hard at Mark’s and April’s faces as if weighing and measuring their souls on the delicate scales of trust and friendship. Mark considered that, in one fell swoop Illya had outed himself, outed Napoleon, and confirmed that he and Napoleon had a sexual relationship. Mark felt the full weight of that ice-blue stare and he gazed steadily back, hoping against hope that his inner thoughts were transparent to the Russian.

The wait for Illya’s response seemed interminable.

Finally, the look of intense scrutiny passed from Kuryakin’s face and a profound look of gratitude stole across the Slavic features - a look that Mark Slate would recall to the end of his days. “Thank you,” Illya said. Simple words, but Mark understood that the soft utterance meant so much more than they could ever convey on the surface.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested in some behind-the-scenes sharing: Thus marks the end of the story where I had some kind of notion of what I was doing. The start of this tale had its origins in a dream I had that I actually remembered upon waking. I wrote down what I dreamt about and that was essentially, Illya, hurt and dying from a mission gone sideways, and Napoleon rescuing him and the two of them getting it on and riding off into the sunset. That was supposed to be the end of the story. My Muse had other ideas and every single darn day, she revealed more and more of this story. Just about every single thing you will read after this chapter came from daily revelations and then later, some incorporation of WWII history that came across while doing something that had absolutely NOTHING to do with MFU. 
> 
> Enjoy and feedback is always welcome.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally I enjoy making alternate versions of an existing art piece. This one is an experiment with a "graphic art" look. It has always been and remains my intention to make a graphic novel from this completed story. 
> 
> Thanks for those who have left Kudos and comments.

  
While Mark Slate and April Dancer had beaten a hasty retreat into Solo’s guest bedroom, Alistair McKinney and Napoleon Solo had been locked in a battle of wills.

“I told you over the phone that if I felt I needed to hire an attorney for this...this trial, I would do so and one of my own choosing.” Solo addressed the thin man who stood ramrod straight in front of him while he himself maintained the illusion of being comfortably seated in his favorite winged-back chair.

McKinney, the very soul of propriety, would not dream of taking a seat without having been invited, thus he was content to conduct his business standing up. McKinney spoke in a precise, measured tone, “Mr. Solo, this is an administrative procedure not a legal one. The formal rules of evidence do not apply. Like it or not, I am your advocate who also happens to have a Harvard law degree. You would do well to be advised that I was pulled away from some extremely sensitive work by Mr. Waverly himself and told to attend exclusively to your affair.”

That last statement captured Napoleon’s attention. He sat up straighter. The Old Man had hand-picked one of U.N.C.L.E.’s top lawyers to represent his interest? He wracked his brain trying on and discarding theories as to Waverly’s motivation before finally settling on the only one that made sense: Alexander Waverly cared about preserving the career of his CEA. For the first time since contemplating the Inquest, he felt some measure of hope dawning, for his boss and mentor had not thrown him to the wolves in the name of procedure.

Then, as though suddenly becoming aware of his rudeness, he apologized for not having offered McKinney a seat and he gestured for him to sit in the second, matching winged-back chair. By then, Napoleon’s expression had grown perceptibly lighter and his eyes looked less clouded. Looking deceptively thoughtful, he cleared his throat and asked, “Harvard did you say?”

“Indeed,” McKinney preened.

“A pity it wasn’t Yale.”

  
********

Illya hated to acknowledge it, but he was losing his internal battle to fight off the creeping lassitude that had plagued him since his release from the infirmary. Nearly half an hour had passed since Dancer and Slate entered Illya’s room and his leg was starting to ache again, but he refused to give in and take any pain medication. When April and Mark, in the way partners instinctively silently communicate with each other suddenly announced their intention to leave, he was secretly relieved.

April leaned over and kissed Illya lightly on the cheek before rising. “It was good to see you, Illya,” she said, warmly smiling at him.

“And you.” And he found to his surprise that he really meant it. Aside from Napoleon, outside of work, he didn’t socialize much with other U.N.C.L.E. agents. It was not in his solitary nature, but over time he had occasionally found himself willingly spending time with Dancer and Slate in purely social situations. In some not insignificant way, the pair had managed to slip into the very tight circle of those whom Illya called “friend.”

Slate nodded his head in Illya’s direction and grinned. “Well what about me?”

“What about you?” Illya deadpanned before the corners of his mouth lifted.

“Yes, it was good seeing you too, Illya.” Mark grinned. Then the Brit’s expression grew serious. “Listen, I know how much you must hate being laid up like this. Just... try and take it easy on Napoleon, will you? It’s a damn shame what he’s being put through.”

Illya ignored Mark’s implied comment that he was a bad patient. “This inquisition is a complete and utter waste of time, but Napoleon will survive,” he replied, his voice reflecting the disdain he felt over the matter.

Inquisition! Mark nearly choked when he heard Illya’s term for the process. He covered by turning his head and coughing into his hand. “Of course he will. I’m sure the Inquest will go Solo’s way. Doesn’t everything?”

April and Mark then walked to the door, and were about to leave when Illya suddenly called out April’s name. She gestured for Mark to wait outside and then she returned to Illya’s bedside.

“What is it, Illya?”

For a moment he stared down at the embroidered pattern on the comforter, having suddenly found it most interesting. He wasn’t used to asking for favors in the manner that Napoleon was, for he was well aware that he lacked his partner’s ability to effortlessly apply charm and force of personality to bend people to his will. Nonetheless, he needed this favor from April and he would have it.

He left off studying the comforter pattern and affixed by his best estimates, a most beguiling expression upon his face, raising his eyes to meet April’s. “I have a favor to ask.”

He explained then what he wanted in the quiet, straightforward way of his, and waited silently for her response. At first she outright refused. Then she tried reasoning, cajoling, then finally out right begging.

In the end, when faced with the soulful depths of Illya’s eyes, April relented.

April shook her head. “You’re going to owe me for this, you know?”

Illya allowed himself a grateful smile. “Thank you, April. Regrettably, I can not pledge you my firstborn child.”

  
*******

The next three days came and went, bringing change for both Napoleon and Illya. The world outside Solo’s apartment carried on as usual during that time. Thrush continued in its quest for world domination, never ceasing to use agents from the far corners of the globe to terrorize, infiltrate, and corrupt. Wherever Thrush was, so too was U.N.C.L.E..

U.N.C.L.E. unrelentingly sent its own agents to stand in the gap, rescuing those in need, uncovering, and thwarting Thrush’s diabolical plans. Some agents returned from their labors to fight another day, one or two perished, unselfishly sacrificing themselves in the line of duty. Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo both chafed under their enforced absence from active field work, knowing that somewhere in the world, their skills were needed in the fight.

Napoleon hid it well, but his suspension continued to wear particularly hard on him. The days leading up to the Inquest seemed to drag on endlessly as his time was occupied with the lengthy meetings Alistair McKinney insisted on holding.

McKinney was as meticulous in his work as he was fastidious in his habits. To Napoleon, he was an odd character whom he’d very quickly ceased thinking of as merely an U.N.C.L.E. mouthpiece. But as much as Solo appreciated McKinney for his competent, sharp mind, he found himself growing short-tempered having to spend hours of his time in the peculiar man’s company going over the events in question and rehashing his actions and results in past missions.

  
He was particularly uncomfortable discussing his partnership with Illya, fearing inadvertent disclosure about their sexual relationship.  
McKinney’s questioning regarding the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ he’d abandoned his duty to rescue Kuryakin caused him to tread carefully around the man at a time when he needed to be completely candid with his U.N.C.L.E. appointed advocate. As far as Solo was concerned, it was barely tolerable that April Dancer and Mark Slate knew that he and Illya were lovers. After all, he’d just recently found the courage to act on his true feelings. The idea of his most life-altering secret having already been uncovered shocked him and caused his heart to lurch in dread when Kuryakin had broken the news to him.

“This is all my fault,” he’d groaned in despair when Illya had explained how April Dancer had put two and two together, starting from the pile of Napoleon’s clothes by Illya’s bed.

Illya had offered his own brand of pragmatic comfort, “What has fallen from the cart is lost, Napoleon, ” he’d remarked. Not surprisingly, Napoleon’s mind was not eased, and among other concerns, he’d spent the next three days wondering if somehow McKinney also knew.

The U.N.C.L.E. lawyer, with his sharp eyes and probing questions was an astute man. Solo instinctively recognized that McKinney was a deeply old fashioned one as well, one for whom the idea of a homosexual relationship would have been horrifyingly scandalous. But if the man had guessed the true nature of his and Kuryakin’s relationship, so far, he had discreetly kept it to himself, though he would have been duty-bound to disclose it to Mr. Waverly.

Try as he might, Napoleon had been unable to shake the concern over just how he and Illya would be allowed to function within the U.N.C.L.E. organization in a scenario where their homosexuality became known. Illya, Napoleon feared, could very well be sent back to the Soviet Union only to be “terminated” or institutionalized in some hell-hole mental hospital under his native country’s deadly, oppressive policies against what they called, “deviant behavior”.

During those three days he had wanted nothing more than to give voice to those fears, to talk things over with Illya, but the Russian had refused to speak of it. That had left Napoleon distracted, brooding alone over the nightmarish possibilities.

The first day he’d broached the topic with Illya, the Russian had stared at him before speaking, and Napoleon read the thinly veiled hurt and confusion in the depths of those soulful eyes. “Regrets so soon, Napoleon?” he’d finally asked, his voice soft.

“No,” Napoleon had carefully replied. “But have you thought about what could happen to you if Mr. Waverly found out and decided to send you back to the Soviet Union?”

Illya had sharply told him that he was acutely aware of what could befall both of them if their secret was discovered by the wrong people. He insisted that they didn’t need to dwell on it by analyzing the situation. “Besides, do you not trust April and Mark to keep their silence?” Illya had demanded.

“You know I do, but if they could so quickly discern what we really are to each other, then so could someone else less understanding within U.N.C.L.E..”

Illya’s eyes had gone flat, expressionless, “Then you must decide if loving me is worth U.N.C.L.E..”

“And is me loving you worth your life?” Napoleon had countered.

Illya had shrugged, “Whether by your side, dead, or in a gulag, I will love you still, Napoleon.” Then he’d closed his eyes, and Napoleon realized he’d been dismissed.

On the second day, when McKinney was occupied elsewhere, Napoleon stood quietly in the door of his guest bedroom, gazing upon the man who meant so much to him with dark and troubled eyes.

Illya was sitting up, wearing his black-framed glasses, reading from one of his professional scientific journals. “What is it?” Illya cautiously asked as he laid down the journal, and removed his glasses. Napoleon wasn’t surprised that Illya had detected his silent presence without having looked up. He looked into those veiled blue eyes and the stubborn set of the Slavic, high-boned features, and internally conceded that it was pointless to try and force Illya into a discussion he didn’t want. Thus when he opened his mouth to answer, what had come out was not the concern which was weighing so heavily on his mind, but a banal question about lunch.

When he hadn’t been thinking troubling thoughts about their relationship being discovered, he had fought to keep an objective view of U.N.C.L.E.’s fact-finding process. It was difficult. He hated not knowing what was in the autopsy report. “Damn it, if the autopsy results contained information which could exonerate me, then why can’t we have access to it immediately?” Solo had demanded of his advocate during one particularly long prep session.

McKinney’s repeated assurances that the Inquest members did not have access to the results either, and would not until the day of the Inquest, failed to lessen one iota the needless anxiety caused by waiting.

By day, Napoleon had to contend with an overdose of the ultra-exacting, Mr. McKinney’s company, the uncertainty of not knowing for sure if anyone else knew about his and Kuryakin’s sexual relationship, and his general unease and mistrust over the Inquest process itself. By night, he tossed and turned in his own bed, having gone back to sleeping in his own room for fear of waking Illya. And if he failed to notice that Illya was eating less and less of the trays of food he fixed, he was not entirely to blame, for Illya had chosen to call as little attention to himself during Napoleon’s time of unrest leading up to the Inquest.

There were other things concerning Illya that escaped Napoleon’s attention as well. Things such as Illya’s seemingly perpetual state of low energy that a sound night’s sleep and naps during the day failed to cure. Nor did he ever see the wince that would sometimes twist Illya’s features from time to time whenever he moved around in the bed.

The day before the Inquest, having declared that he had complied sufficiently long with the medical orders to remain in bed with his leg immobilized, Illya took up his crutches and announced in a firm voice that he was going home to the solitude of his own apartment. Napoleon had vigorously protested, calling Illya’s actions ill-advised and premature, but Illya would not be dissuaded.

Reluctantly, Napoleon hailed a cab for Illya. When it arrived, he’d folded up the wheelchair, placed it in the trunk of the cab, and accompanied him to his apartment, for he knew the Russian all too well. After the passage of that much time, the only thing fit for consumption in his refrigerator was most likely a bottle of frozen vodka.

They had no sooner arrived at Illya’s small place than Napoleon opened up Illya’s pantry and perused its contents. He clicked his tongue in mock pity at what he saw. One can of Campbell’s tomato soup stood lonely sentry duty over a single tin of stale crackers. The refrigerator contents boasted no better fare. There was a bottle of milk gone sour, some fruit, and something experimental in a plastic container. He quickly rid the refrigerator of its contents and made a quick run to the corner grocery store to restock Illya’s empty shelves.

When he returned he found Illya sitting on his couch, and the bottle of vodka and two glasses out on the coffee table. “What’s this?” he asked, mildly surprised. They both knew that with Illya’s medications, alcohol was off-limits.

“A toast for luck tomorrow.” Illya had proceeded to pour Napoleon a normal portion, and for himself a small amount.

“I thought you don’t believe in luck.”

“You were born lucky, Napoleon,” Illya said with a smirk. “What’s not to believe?”

For the first time in three days, Napoleon smiled with a grin that was a genuine, heartfelt expression.

TBC

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the Kudos/Comments. 
> 
> This is an early carbon-pencil drawing where I was just learning to apply a few self-taught things I read about for the first time. It definitely represented a higher level for me so I kind of like it.

 

*******

From his fresh haircut, superbly tailored suit, and Italian leather shoes, Napoleon Solo was impeccably well dressed, perfectly groomed, exceeding even his own usual high standards. Nonetheless, he smoothed a non-existent stray hair into place and straightened a perfectly straight silk tie.

It was 7:35am and for the moment, all he wanted to do was stand there outside the doors leading to the room for the Inquest and among other things, savor the feeling of still being U.N.C.L.E. New York’s Chief Enforcement Agent. There was some part of him, hidden within his subconscious mind, that wanted to once more feel the extra empowering confidence whenever he’d acknowledged the widely accepted belief within U.N.C.L.E. that he was an agent with a long, viable career ahead of him. At the end of the day he would know if that was still true or not, and all he had to do was step through those doors and let the proceeding begin.

He dared not tarry long; the Inquest was scheduled to commence at 8:00am and McKinney was already inside waiting for him, as were the three-member panel consisting of senior Policy and Operations Section agents from various U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. Stewart Rolf was from U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC, George Witherspoon from U.N.C.L.E. San Francisco, and one was from outside of the purview of U.N.C.L.E.’s North American Operations: Yi Chun, from the Hong Kong Asia Headquarters, who happened to be in New York on other matters and at Mr. Waverly’s request, had graciously extended his stay to assist in convening the Inquest.

There were bound to be some observers as well. McKinney had informed him that the Inquest was an open proceeding - anyone with an interest and time on their hands could attend. Solo tried in vain to put that thought out of his mind. And while he hoped none of his colleagues would show up to witness his humiliation, his hopes were quickly dashed when a group of not less than 20 people, a mix of male and female agents, followed by a wave of young women from the secretarial pool, politely walked around him and entered the room. Some of the women kissed him on the cheek, and a few of the agents shook his hand and wished him luck.

And then there were other agents.

There were always a few whose lesser competence and greater paucity of character led them to nurture rather than squelch the life from the green-eyed monster that lay within. For the most part, they hid their acrimony against Waverly’s appointed heir, but nonetheless, they were the worm inside The Old Man’s apple. It was this group who wouldn’t quite look Solo in the eye as they slithered past him. Napoleon looked after them with disdain. _Gawkers, already calculating the order of promotion should my career end._

As for the well-wishers, any other time he would have relished the open display of support, but not now. He had foolishly clung to the hope that few even knew about the Inquest and thus would not be present to witness the possible ending of his career should things not go his way. Clearly, McKinney’s warning had come true. For the thousandth time, Solo damned Dr. Phoenix. _Wherever you are, I hope it’s hot_.

The fact that Illya, in his current condition, would not be in attendance was one he found enormously relieving. If this was indeed to be the end of his career with U.N.C.L.E., the last person he wanted to witness the death of the partnership was, in fact, his partner. He could bear just about anything, but not the act of having to look Illya in the eye and know that the Russian would be out in the field without him to watch his back, and that his own actions had ultimately led to the destruction of their partnership. He wasn’t going let that happen without a fight.

Napoleon Solo squared his shoulders and entered the room.

  
*******

The room where Napoleon Solo’s fate was to be decided was a windowless one, characterized by stiff-backed chairs and rigid formality.

The three-member panel was seated at the table placed at the front of the room. Rolf and Witherspoon sat on either side of Chun, who was considered the panel’s senior member. For the most part, they didn’t talk amongst themselves, preferring to sit quietly and review the documents of procedural rules.

Helen Zimmerman, an experienced administrative assistant, who had been assigned clerking duty, sat at her own table, just to the right of the panel.

Solo and McKinney were seated at a table in front and to the left of the panel. The colleagues that had come out to support him sat in the area set aside for observers.

The ebb and flow of talk emanating from the observers’ area behind him swirled about. For the most part, Solo was able to mentally block out the sounds of multiple conversations until it was reduced to only so much buzzing noise. However, every now and then, snatches of conversation, tinged with strains of attitude, penetrated through his mental audio filter.

_...leave his assignment like that..._

_...How did he know..._

_...always thought those two were..._

_...murdered the old man.._

_...disgraced U.N.C.L.E....._

_...shut up...._

Yes, shut up, he wanted to shout. His hand clenched with sudden tension and he willed himself to relax.

McKinney who missed nothing, didn’t even turn his head to look at his client. “Remarkable how all organizations somehow have their share of disingenuous underachievers, Mr. Solo,” he remarked calmly. “Ignore them.”

Napoleon’s lips curved into a grim smile of sorts as he willed his body to relax. He’d just about succeeded in achieving a cool and collected state when Fate mockingly intervened.

It was Illya.

His body’s senses went on full alert and he could feel his heart rate increase. He did a double take, not quite believing what he was seeing as he half rose from his chair. He made no attempt to wipe the surprised expression from his face - he didn’t have to because the anger that rose from within effectively erased it.

April Dancer was pushing Illya into the room in the hated wheelchair.

Napoleon shook off McKinney’s restraining hand and crossed the room. He was seething. He didn’t bother to address Illya but rather focused his attention on April. “Have you lost your mind? I don’t know what he said to you to get you to cart him here against doctor’s orders, but this is your fault for not having the guts to stand up to him,” Solo hissed.

Dancer turned an unflappable expression down upon Illya’s upturned face. “See, I told you he would blow a gasket,” the attractive agent remarked mildly.

“I’m down here, Napoleon.” His partner was looking calmly up at him.

Napoleon took a deep breath. “April, may I have a word alone with my partner?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for bringing me, April. You don’t have to stay anymore” Illya spoke up.

“Don’t go anywhere April, because he’s not staying,” Solo countered. 

April withdrew a discreet distance away.

Angry, Napoleon looked down into the face of his partner - and read there all the love and concern that was etched into the beloved face. Emotions that Illya bestowed exclusively upon him in a world that had consistently shown the Russian how hard and cruel it could be.

His anger slowly leached away. He’d often mentioned how glad he was that Illya would be at home relaxing while the Inquest was being conducted, but he’d never once forbidden him from coming. Of course Illya was here. He was doing what they had and always would do for another - being there to watch his back, offer strength and support whenever needed.

Napoleon ruefully sighed and went to the mental place where love covered a multitude of sins.   He hadn’t changed his mind about the foolhardiness of the conspiracy though. “You should be at home resting,” he gently rebuked. He’d gotten a good look at his partner and didn’t like what he was seeing.

Illya looked tired. His face was pale and his eyes held an ever so slight, distant, glazed look that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else but Napoleon. Before Illya could effectively block it, Napoleon’s hand snaked out and touched the broad forehead, feeling for fever. There was none, and Napoleon reluctantly withdrew his hand.

“I’m fine, now stop making a spectacle of yourself, Napoleon.” Illya hissed. The Russian looked around and Napoleon’s gaze followed. The room had grown suddenly silent with too many sets of eyes trained on them. Napoleon instantly felt like a bug under a microscope.

It was 7:58am. Napoleon quickly stepped back from Illya when he saw the time. “We’ll talk about this later,” was all he said before turning on his heels and heading back to his table.

April stepped lively over to Illya’s side. “Well, are you staying or going?”

“Staying.” Kuryakin gestured in the direction of the observers’ area. “There is a place over there marked with the words, ‘invalid agents whose partners are infuriated with them.’”

“I won’t say I told you so,” April breathed cheerfully as she began to push Illya’s chair towards the desired place.

Illya twisted his body in the chair to see April’s face. “I congratulate you on your show of restraint,” he muttered. His words carried his trademark sarcasm, but his eyes regarded April with gratitude. The blond head turned to face forward again and Illya’s eyes fell on those who were staring at him with such rapt attention. The enigmatic Russian’s face assumed a cold, stony expression and all who observed the transformation suddenly found something else to look at.

The Ice Prince was now in attendance.

  
******* 

 

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

At exactly 8:00am, the Inquest commenced. Yi Chun cleared his throat before speaking. “The time is 0800 and the Inquest concerning Chief Enforcement Agent Napoleon Solo’s conduct during the Masked Ball Affair will now commence,” his lightly accented voice solemnly intoned. “Per rule eleven of United Network Command for Law and Enforcement Rules of Conduct, specific matters to be considered will be the termination of the mission known as The Masked Ball Affair and the death of Thrush scientist, Dr. Mannheim Phoenix.”

While Yi Chun spoke, the two other panel members, Witherspoon and Rolf, were busy scrutinizing Solo as if they could read his mind and discern the truth. Napoleon in turn, coolly returned their gaze, neither challenging them nor nervously fidgeting before them. If they wanted a reaction from him, they would get none.

What came next was an obligatory recitation of Napoleon’s rights and the rules of procedure, followed by a query from the board and an affirmation from Solo that he understood the same.

Yi Chun nodded his head, apparently pleased to move on to the heart of the matter. “Regarding the first matter, the board has received and read the background report concerning the nature of the assignment that Agents Solo and Kuryakin were both assigned. We understand what was to be accomplished. Sometime during the collection phase of the assignment, the mission was aborted when Mr. Solo abandoned his undercover position, without authority, and did not return. Our task is to determine whether or not Mr. Solo’s actions were in violation of U.N.C.L.E. policy defining dereliction of duty and failure to obey a command by a superior.”

George Witherspoon spoke next. “We are ready to hear testimony from you, Mr. Solo, as well as Agent Beams, and Agent Archer. A reading of Mr. Archer’s written report will have to suffice as we understand he’s currently away on assignment. Any objection to that, Mr. McKinney?”

“At this time we wish to reserve the right to object.” McKinney replied.

“Very well. Let the record reflect that Mr. Solo’s objection to the reading of Agent Archer’s report is reserved.”

Witherspoon next inquired about any witnesses Mr. Solo might call. When McKinney answered in the affirmative, Solo glanced sideways at him sharply. McKinney hadn’t told him that he planned to call a witness other than himself. What’s the sly dog up to?

Agent Beams was called to testify first. Napoleon subtly shifted in his chair, sitting straighter the moment Agent Beams took the stand. The man had yet to speak a single utterance and yet Napoleon’s years of finely-tuned senses were signaling to him like semaphore flags that something was off. Was it a certain swagger to the man’s walk that had not been there before? Or was it the peculiar look in his eyes that glanced in his direction as Beams made his way to the witness’ box? What ever it was, Napoleon felt instinctively disquieted by it. As far as he could recall, Agent Beams had been helpful to him in Washington D.C., thus he was at a loss as to how to read the man.

George Witherspoon commenced the questioning of Beams regarding first his assigned role in the affair, and second his interactions with Solo. Napoleon listened carefully to Beams’ answers and slowly, he began to relax as he realized the man actually had very little to say as their interaction had been minimal the actual day of the assignment. On the question of whether or not he knew if an order had been given to Solo to terminate the assignment, Beams responded that he had no knowledge either way.

Then Yi Chun spoke. “Agent Beams, why did you leave the ball room?”

Napoleon’s senses went on alert as he observed Agent Beams affect a reluctant expression that didn’t quite mask the sly-tinged glint in his eyes.

Beams hesitated a moment before speaking as if answering with great reluctance. “I left because Agent Solo, as the senior agent in charge, gave Agent Archer and me a direct order to accompany him.” Without being asked, Beams added, “The assignment wasn’t over, but what choice did we have? I seriously thought he was going to pull out his weapon and shoot us if we didn’t leave with him.”

All three of the board members’ faces reflected their apparent disapproval over Solo’s presumed actions.

Napoleon’s face darkened and he stared hard at the agent. He searched his memory and found the truth readily. No, he had not threatened either agent, nor had he ordered them to accompany him. But could his actions have been perceived that way? He shifted uncomfortably in the hard, stiff-backed chair. It was possible, he concluded. But still...Napoleon’s enforcement agent instincts told him differently. “I don’t know why, but he’s lying,” he leaned over and whispered vehemently to his counsel.

“I know,” McKinney replied calmly, without missing a beat in the notes he was discreetly scribbling.

“Aren’t you going to cross-examine him? Expose him for the lies he told?” Napoleon demanded.

“No.” Mr. McKinney spoke under this breath with exaggerated slowness as if speaking to a child. “We’ve already gone over the strategy here a thousand times. Now is not the time to inquire about it again. You did in fact abandon your assignment without authority, therefore, this particular charge can best be overcome through mitigation and precedence.”

Napoleon chafed under the constraints. “I want you to cross-examine him,” he insisted.

“I strongly advise against it,” McKinney warned.

But Napoleon would not be dissuaded. Beams’ hostile testimony had come out of left field, stinging his pride and offending his deeply ingrained sense of justice. How dare the agent toy with his career this way. The man who had helped save his partner’s life had lied and Napoleon burned to know why. He took a deep breath and made a command decision that could very well be ill-fated. “I’m ordering you to cross-examine him. Do it, or you’re fired.”

McKinney did not reply at once, but rather stared at him with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Clearly he disagreed with his client, but Napoleon knew the man was a professional and would do as he wished.

While the quiet struggle between attorney and client was taking place, Yi Chun inquired of the other board members as to whether or not they had any questions for the testifying agent. When they indicated that they did not, Yi addressed Mr. McKinney. “Have you any questions for this witness?”

“One or two, I believe.” With a last look back at him, McKinney rose from his chair and approached Agent Beams, a deceptively deferential smile on his face. “I won’t take up too much of your time, Agent Beams. I heard you were one of U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC’s rising stars, is that right?”

Beams looked down with an expression of feigned modesty that did not quite conceal the pompous expression in his eyes. “Well...I just do my best to get the job done, that’s all.”

“You consider yourself a competent agent, do you not?”

“Well, yes. Of course I do.”

“And you had no difficulty understanding your assignment?”

“Of course not, it was pretty straightforward.”

“Your mission and that of Agent Archer’s was to assist Agent Solo?”

“I already said that,” Beams answered, looking smug.

“True.” McKinney affected an apologetic expression. “So, just to be sure I understand you, you are a competent agent who just simply failed to read your orders, correct?”

Beam’s smug expression lingered, but a puzzled, annoyed look threatened to hone in. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your orders specifically state that you and Agent Archer were assigned to assist Agent Solo and Agent Kuryakin, isn’t that true?”

Agent Beams was silent, as if contemplating whether agreeing or disagreeing would yield the result most favorable to him and least so for Solo.”

“Yes, that was our mission,” Beams finally replied.

McKinney flashed a smile that was dark and shark-like. “And you carried out your mission as you‘d been entrusted, didn’t you, Agent Beams?”

Beams answered warily, “Uh,,,yes, that’s right.”

“In fact, you willingly carried out your mission so well that without your critical assistance to Mr. Solo, U.N.C.L.E. surely would have lost one of its top operatives in Agent Kuryakin, isn’t that correct?”

“I guess you could say that.” Beams did not look happy.

McKinney arched an eyebrow - the perfect accent to his disbelief . “Are you still confused about your mission?”

A slight flush bloomed across Beams’ arrogant features. “No,” he answered in a tone steeped in reluctance to give McKinney what he wanted. “I willingly carried out my mission when I helped Agent Solo save Agent Kuyakin’s life.”

“Thank you.” McKinney smiled coldly before appearing to move on.

“Isn’t it true that neither Agent Solo nor Agent Kuryakin would have been made aware of your presence at the ball in advance?”

“True. According to our orders, they didn’t know that we would be there,” Beams agreed.

“And that was because your assignment was a last-minute tasking, isn’t that true?”

“I don’t remember.”

It was a small lie, as lies go and McKinney chose to let it stand. “Isn’t it true that just as Mr. Solo was unaware of your presence and mission, that you in turn did not know what his mission was?”

Beams swallowed, convulsively, contemplating briefly the efficacy of lying and choosing instead the efficiency of truth, “No, I didn’t know.”

McKinney nodded in approval.

“Now Agent Beams, you testified that when you and Archer left the ballroom with Mr. Solo, you knew that the assignment wasn’t over.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well now I’m confused. You acknowledge that you were assigned to assist Agents Solo and Kuryakin and that you did so, don’t you?

McKinney barely waited for the response knowing that Beams could hardly testify to the contrary.

As expected, Beams concurred. “Yet your after mission report indicates an outcome of “incomplete”, McKinney continued.

“Beams shrugged. “Yes, that’s true.”

The unreadable expression was back on McKinney’s face and this time, that gaze of his was trained at a point somewhere beyond where Napoleon was sitting. Suddenly, Napoleon was gripped with an inexplicable queasy feeling in his gut. He faked a cough into his hand, daring to discreetly peer around to find the object of McKinney’s attention. The queasy feeling turned into an all out internal klaxon, alerting him of some danger when he saw that it was Illya who appeared to be directly in McKinney’s line of sight.

Napoleon tensed and quickly turned back around. Damnation. McKinney had tried to warn him, had given him his best professional advice. He had ignored it and now it was too late. All he could do was look on while McKinney led the testifying agent up to the cliff before pushing him over. Whatever impending disaster was about to befall, he could only hope that it wouldn’t sweep him over the edge as well.

“Agent Beams, isn’t it true that you changed your report to read, “mission not completed” only after you learned of the specifics of Mr. Solo’s mission?”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it? The day after you helped save Kuryakin’s life, you prepared your report and on it you checked the box that indicated that the assignment had been completed.”

Beams sat up straighter, so tempted to deny it - so sure that McKinney had no way of knowing the truth - that he had in fact marked the mission as having been accomplished, but had subsequently changed it to, ‘Mission Not Completed’ so that it would reflect badly on Agent Solo.

Beams’ silence dragged on.

“Answer the question, Agent Beams,” Yi Chun instructed.

Suddenly Agent Beams’ posture relaxed and he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Yes. I was correcting an inaccuracy. That’s the real   
point, isn’t it?

“On the contrary,” McKinney said, his voice softer, “The point for the time being is not what you changed but _why_ you changed it. You completed your mission but changed the outcome on your report to indicate failure out of nothing more than pure personal dislike for Agent Solo, isn’t that true?”

Yes, it was true. Agent Beams choose at that moment to turn the full potency of his disdainful sneer on Napoleon. The two men locked gazes and suddenly Napoleon couldn’t breathe. _He knows! Oh God, and McKinney knows that he knows_. He saw himself standing on the edge of that cliff McKinney had set up for the testifying agent, yet knowing that it was he himself who was about to be cast down upon the jagged, jutting rocks below with power of the words Agent Beams would use to expose his homosexual relationship.

He cursed himself silently for the fool he’d been. If only he had listened to McKinney’s advice. He couldn’t see his attorney’s face with his back turned away, but even if he had he would not have been able to read anything on the smooth, poker-face. However, Napoleon guessed that inside, McKinney must be feeling a great deal of tension too at having to walk along the fine edge of a knife to get Beams to say what he needed and not something harmful.

Would Agent Beams dare to openly accuse him of having a homosexual relationship with his partner? Beams had no real proof, only the observations of his passions when he’d fought and won to bring Illya back from death. To accuse him thusly would only be the political end of his own career.

He took a deep breath and Lady Luck who looked after both fools and Chief Enforcement Agents, chose at that moment to look after Napoleon Solo. A quite sour expression replaced the sneer as Beams, as if realizing that voicing aloud the real reason for his dislike for U.N.C.L.E.’s CEA would mostly backfire on him.

Beams would have to either deny McKinney’s assertion and look like a liar doing so, or admit to having a personal dislike of him, but no, he couldn’t risk making such a public accusation without proof that in fact, Napoleon Solo was having a homosexual affair with his partner.

Solo returned Beams’ gaze coolly, awaiting the man’s response.

Beams spoke, his words slow, his tone sarcastic. “Yes. If the great Napoleon Solo got taken down -”

“Thank you, that will be all.” McKinney cut Beams off before he could launch into a self-indulgent rant against his client.

McKinney had won this round by casting doubt on Agent Beam‘s credibility while keeping him from divulging his suspicions. Napoleon closed his eyes in relief and vowed that never again would he second-guess McKinney‘s judgment.

Shortly thereafter Beams was excused from the stand, and Alistair McKinney returned to his seat next to Napoleon. His counsel looked straight ahead but when he spoke, his clipped words were for Napoleon’s ears only.

“If you ever do that again, you won’t have to fire me. I quit.”

  
*******

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback welcomed.


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

The board members called for a short, but very welcomed break. Napoleon, who was eager to leave the stuffy, formal room ahead of the pack, tore out of the place alone, not even waiting to talk to Illya.

He leaned against the wall briefly before starting to walk down the hall.  
Napoleon had walked the familiar halls of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters so many times that he could do it in his sleep. Now those same halls with the off-white paint seemed alien to him. He didn’t feel as though he belonged there. He wondered vaguely if the fact that he’d never walked those halls to a room where he was the subject of an Inquest before had anything to do with it.

He spied a water fountain and stopped to take a long, satisfying drink of cold water before his moment as the sole occupier of the quiet halls abruptly ended.

The door to the Inquest room opened up and chattering spectators began filing out. Illya was among them, and as he wheeled himself out, he was accompanied by one of the agents from Section Three - a man who was particularly fond of the sound of his own voice.

The injured Russian looked around for Napoleon as he tried to extricate himself from the conversation, but he was held captive by the colleague’s prattling. Then he saw Napoleon down the hall. With great interest he watched as Agent Beams walked up to his partner.

Napoleon had finished his drink, straightened himself and turned around, only to find Agent Beams in his face, invading his personal space. He deftly stepped around the man and began to walk away.

Beams spoke in a low voice, but loud enough for Napoleon to hear, “Looks like you dodged that bullet, Solo. Wait until you read the report Archer submitted - he'll sink your case for sure. You know, he actually felt kind of sorry for you. He thought it was a real shame that your commie fag partner had so much influence over someone who used to be such a real man."

Something in the air turned tense and deadly.

Napoleon stopped dead in his tracks before slowly turning. He walked back to Beams at a deceptively leisurely pace, and the chilly, predatory look on his face had Illya quickly excusing himself from the conversation with the Section Three agent and wheeling himself over in an impossible attempt to intercept Napoleon.

Illya lost the race. He watched, an expression of warning on his face as Napoleon halted in front of Beams, his fist already curled in anticipation of striking a blow. “What did you say?”

Beams sneered nastily.

Illya, full of adrenalin and frantic now to stop Napoleon, rose from his wheelchair, not even feeling the pain from standing on his injured leg.  
He reached for Napoleon and instead, fell slightly forward, grabbing on to Agent Beams.

The result was instantaneous revulsion. Beams yanked his arm away as if branded by a hot poker. He shoved Illya away snarling, “Get away from me you fag!”

With a sharp cry, Illya fell backwards, powerless to stop his descent to the hard floor. On the way, he crashed into the chair knocking it over making the two spoked wheels facing up spin madly. Illya’s body hit the floor with bone-jarring intensity. Napoleon watched in horror as the Russian, white-faced, writhed in silent agony, his face communicating eloquently the wave of pain that had washed over him like a tsunami.

Furious, Napoleon whirled around and shoved Beams up against the wall, his arm pressed against the man’s neck. Beams struggled vainly to get away and his face began to turn red. Napoleon was relentless as he whispered in Beams’ ear, “Get out of here now while you can because if you _ever_ put your hands on him again I’ll make it so you can’t touch anything. Ever.”

“Mr. Solo.” The voice sounded calm, but there was an underlying tension lurking just beneath the surface. The voice said his name again and gradually, Napoleon registered the presence of Mr. McKinney by his side. “Mr. Solo, see to your partner,” the attorney suggested in no-nonsense tone.

Napoleon removed his arm from Beams’ neck and dropped down to Illya’s side, trying to uncurl the tightly curled figure. “Get a medic here, now!” Several agents standing by reached for their communicator pens at once. Then he was rubbing Illya’s back in a soothing gesture, feeling the muscles knotted like ropes. “Hang on, Illya, the medics are coming.”

  
********

Illya Kuryakin lay upon the examination table in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary stoically enduring Dr. Greenberg’s particularly biting lecture and efficient examination. Ten minutes ago he would not have cared that he was being admonished in the manner of a parent with a disobedient child - indeed he would scarcely have even registered the doctor’s presence by his side.

After he’d hit the hard floor, he’d had a vague awareness that Napoleon was there, touching him, whispering in his ear, but his partner’s voice had sounded far-off as if projected through a long tunnel. The pain had been so blinding and his own harsh panting so loud that he’d been unable to comprehend what Napoleon was saying.

Then he’d become aware of hands on him. Strangers’ hands employed to lift him with a painless, gentle grip, had instead caused him to moan aloud as he fought desperately to keep from vomiting all over himself when the pain in his leg intensified.

Illya had completely missed the chief physician’s surprised and deeply worried expression when the gurney bearing him had burst through the doors, delivering him to the infirmary. His eyes had been closed tightly in his bloodless face, his hands clutched like talons at the cast around his leg.

Doctor Greenberg and his head nurse, Lavina Richardson had instantly sprung into action, working together as a team as one injected a strong dose of morphine into the port of a speedily inserted IV, and the other took his vitals and temperature. Minutes later, they jointly began the task of removing Illya’s cast, making his leg ready for when the portable x-ray machine would be brought over and put to use.

With the morphine now blessedly coursing through Illya’s system, the pain that had pinned him to the floor and left him writhing in mindless agony had been effectively reduced to a deep, dull ache. His capacity for rational thought had deemed it safe to return on the heels of that relief and did so with humiliating clarity.

Now as he lay on the examination table, the sweat drying uncomfortably on his body, he was able to answer Dr. Greenberg’s probing questions concerning why was he at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, how long he had remained in bed upon his discharge, whether he had adhered to the regime of antibiotics, and whether or not he’d run a fever or experienced pain in his leg before.

Illya watched Dr. Greenberg’s characteristically compassionate, gentle expression turn into an ever deepening, displeased frown as he answered him truthfully after each query, knowing full well what was coming next. As Nurse Richardson began to draw seemingly endless vials of blood from his veins, he had no choice but to listen to the lecture the unhappy Dr. Greenberg launched at a higher volume than necessary.

Doctor Stephan Young, one of Dr. Greenberg’s younger colleagues, discerned what was happening between patient and physician. He casually wandered over on the pretext of observing the senior physician’s choice of treatment. In reality, he wanted to collect pointers on what to say and how to say it if he ever needed to thoroughly chastise a stubborn, hard-headed patient - particularly the Russian agent kind.

Doctor Young was enlightened.

Dr. Greenberg paused in his lecture to inspect Illya’s damaged limb again. The area over the place where the jagged edges of his tibia had punched through his flesh was sore, warm and swollen to the touch. The U.N.C.L.E. physician clucked his tongue. “This isn’t good, Illya. I need the blood test results back, but I’m already certain you have a bone infection. I discussed with you before you were discharged how very serious something like that can become over time. Why didn’t you come in before?”

Illya closed his eyes wearily. “I was coming to see you today, after Napoleon’s Inquest, just... not like this.” He tried and failed to ignore the feeling of utter humiliation sweeping through him at the thought of how weak and pathetic he must have looked to his fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents, writhing on the floor, half out of his mind. All because - _Get away from me you fag!_ Memory returned, the hateful words Beams had uttered at him sounding in his mind like an echo. He shuddered, confused and suddenly deeply troubled. What had the man said to Napoleon to set him off that way in the moments before his fall?

Dr. Greenberg, mistakenly attributed his patient’s too thin body’s reaction to being undressed in the relatively cool infirmary. He asked the nurse to bring another blanket. “I can see you’ve lost weight too. Later I want to know just how much after I’ve checked your x-rays. Those will show me how your tibia is healing and tell us if you’ve sustained any new breaks as a result of the fall. Have you felt fatigued lately?”

“A little.” Illya replied vaguely. “Is Napoleon here?” he asked.

“He said to tell you that he was sorry but he had to return to the Inquest.”

“Of course,” Illya murmured. Things were becoming even clearer. The distress he felt now was not for himself, but for his partner. He’d heard Beams’ strange testimony and been baffled by the hostility of it. From what Napoleon had told him, the man was a competent agent who had done all he could to help save his life.

He’d also observed the intense whispering going on between Napoleon and McKinney at one point during Beams’ cross-exam. He could only speculate as to what had gone unsaid both on and off the stand, but he believed he had a fair idea now. The incident in the hallway and the ugly words Beams spewed were proof enough. _Why? What reason would he have for saying what he did?_

As he thought about all that had transpired, a more disturbing thought arose in his mind. McKinney knew something, he was sure of it.

In the almost seven years Illya Kuryakin had been a part of U.N.C.L.E. and lived in America, he’d gradually shed almost all of the vestiges of the extreme mistrust that had been ingrained in him as a youth. One developed a strong sense of paranoia from doing one’s best to survive within the Soviet Union, and Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was no exception. Mother Russia embraced her sons and daughters with great devotion, but her grip was often cruel and crushing, the emotional imprints lasting long after the occasional, fortunate person had obtained physical liberation.

He didn’t like it, but he knew he would always carry within him some holdover tendency of paranoia - and not just for his former Soviet taskmasters, but on some level, toward U.N.C.L.E. too. That particular trait was emerging again now.

As he lay on the exam table, he couldn’t help but wonder if agents of the KGB or even Waverly himself had finally found a way to uncover the secret of his sexual inclination which he’d thought he’d hidden successfully for so long. Had either organization planted some heretofor unknown undetectable, super high-tech surveillance equipment in Napoleon’s apartment and now had the proof which somehow Beams knew about? Illya shook his head slightly. He knew it sounded extreme. He knew it didn’t make sense, but still...  
An urgent need to return to the Inquest quickly swept through him.

Illya, still feeling a slight degree of discomfort, reached out to stay Dr. Greenberg’s hand as the physician continued to examine his injured limb. “I have to get out of here. How soon will I be able to leave here?” he abruptly asked.

The physician looked at his patient incredulously. “What makes you think you are going anywhere? He didn’t wait for an answer. “Forgive me, apparently I’ve been treating the wrong part of your anatomy. I was unaware that your ears have gone deaf.”

Illya, refusing to be shamed, frowned. “ You seemed sure of the diagnosis and that the treatment is an intensive course of antibiotics. I don’t need to remain here for that.”

Dr. Greenberg was not unsympathetic to Illya’s need to escape the medical facility. He understood the Russian only too well and knew the deep loathing the agent, much like his partner Solo, had for being ill and hospitalized. The doctor ran a hand absently through his graying hair. He had to tell the agent about another procedure he needed to perform. “I need to see both your x-rays and blood test results, but its possible that neither one will give me a definitive answer. I’d like to make sure no abscesses are forming around the surrounding tissue where I see swelling above the bone. To do that, I’ll need to take a sample of your bone. I’ll see which OR is ready.”

Illya stared blankly at the doctor.

“It’s a surgical procedure that requires a sterile operating room,” Greenberg explained.

As if on cue, two orderlies brought over a gurney and began the delicate process of transferring Illya with his uncasted leg, from the exam table.

Ten minutes later he was in the OR, staring up at the too bright lights that made his eyes tear-up. Dr. Greenberg and Nurse Richardson entered the room.

Nurse Richardson brought over and handed Dr. Greenberg a large bore needle. Illya said nothing but his eyes tracked the progress of the large bore needle, paralyzed with stark fascination at the painful-looking tool. Illya found himself contemplating what would hurt worse, hobbling away from the infirmary on his uncasted, broken leg, or having the huge needle plunged in bone-deep.

Dr. Greenberg seemingly read his patient’s mind. “With the morphine injection you’ve already had you should only feel minimal pain.”

Nurse Richardson smiled gently down at him, her white teeth shining brilliantly like pearls against her smooth, dark skin. “It will be all right, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya willed himself not to tense as Dr. Greenberg positioned the large needle at the area of maximal tenderness on his leg and began the process of aspiration. The needle was slowly eased into his flesh and then pushed with steady force until it penetrated deep into his bone.

Even with the sedation the pain that had dulled to a low throb, flared anew. Illya gritted his teeth and concentrated on not yanking his leg away. A string of Russian curses escaped from his lips and his hands clenched the sides of the examination table with a white-knuckled grip. Wordlessly, Nurse Richardson wiped his face where the sweat had broken out once again. So much for minimal pain. _At least the Thrush torturers ask questions when they practice their skills._

At last the bone aspiration was finished and Dr. Greenberg, much to Illya’s relief, withdrew the bore needle. The U.N.C.L.E. physician immediately cleaned the site and put light pressure on it to stop the bleeding. “Sorry about that Illya. You can breathe now.” Greenberg apologized as he handed the needle to Nurse Richardson.

Illya let out a shaky breath he didn‘t realize he‘d been holding. “Not half as sorry as I am, he muttered. He closed his eyes and imagined himself far from the clutches of Dr. Greenberg and his competent medical staff.

“How are you doing?” Greenberg inquired.

“Never better,” Illya replied as he waited for the pain to die down again. He didn’t bother to open his eyes again as the orderlies arrived to wheel him out of the OR.

Once back in the treatment room, he was left alone to wait in what was becoming to him a disturbingly familiar setting. All he had was his throbbing leg and morose thoughts to keep him company. Thus far, his day had been disastrous. He’d wanted only to come to Headquarters to support Napoleon and now he was stuck for the foreseeable future in the infirmary, helpless to watch his friend and lover’s back.

“Mr. Kuryakin’s x-rays and blood test results are ready, Doctor.” Nurse Richardson’s announcement suddenly interrupted Illya’s musings. Startled, his eyes flew open. He’d been unaware that both Nurse Richardson and Dr. Greenberg had returned to the treatment room.

“Good, let’s take a look.” Dr. Greenberg took the proffered film and lab results. Illya watched as Greenberg hung up the x-rays and peered intently at them. The physician readjusted his heavy black-framed glasses which he‘d perched on the end of his nose. Seemingly satisfied by what he saw, he turned his attention to the lab results. Illya noted the frown that appeared on Greenberg’s face as the man began making notations in his medical chart.

Illya tensed as Greenberg closed the chart and walked over. He forced himself to remember that the U.N.C.L.E. physician was on his side and not some THRUSH torturer. “Which one are you playing, Good Doc or Bad Doc?” he asked, humorlessly.

Dr. Greenberg got directly to the point. “The good news is that your x-rays show no new breaks and the existing one remains stable. I don’t see any abscesses forming, but we’ll have to wait for the results of the bone sample to be sure. Obviously that’s something we want to keep a close eye on and prevent. On the other hand, your blood tests are normal. There’s no elevated white cell count indicating infection and your temperature is within normal range.

Illya relaxed some, but he was confused. “That is good news, is it not?

“Yes and no. The preliminary test results don’t indicate infection, however, it is a fact that bacterial or fungal infections may not produce a fever. And just to keep things interesting, blood test results can be within normal range as well. However, the fact that there is swelling, and you are experiencing extreme pain, fatigue, and weight loss, not to mention the length of time your wound was exposed to dirt, make it highly likely that there is an infection taking hold. Greenberg paused, “I don’t want you to kid yourself, Illya. This could clear up with only an aggressive course of antibiotics and steroids, or things could get complicated and require more invasive treatment.”

_So it’s to be Bad Doc after all_. Illya prudently kept the grim thought to himself. “Just what kind of complications are we talking about, Doctor?”

“For one thing you have metal screws in place to repair the fracture. We have to be careful because any artificial device in the body can serve as a focal point for infection. Judging by the pain you’ve been experiencing in that area, that is what’s occurring. The danger is that if your bone is infected, swollen soft tissue may compress the blood vessels in your marrow. Naturally, this cuts off the blood supply and that could be severe enough for parts of your leg bone to die.”

“And the treatment?” he asked, his gaze never wavering from Greenberg’s face.

Dr. Greenberg replied with equal candor. “In addition to long-term IV antibiotics for at least a month, direct injections of antibiotics, steroids, and lots of rest, I may need to surgically drain and clean the bone. The medical term for that is ‘debridement’.

“Yes, I’m familiar with the term,” Illya muttered. He was trying hard to maintain his calm facade, but inside all he could envision in his immediate future was weeks of captivity in the infirmary under someone else’s control and not being by Napoleon’s side, watching his back. _Could things get any worse?_

Somewhere an old, long-buried memory stirred within. Courtesy of the war, Illya Kuryakin had been left a hungry orphan on the devastated streets of Kiev before being taken away to survive in a hell of another kind. Life inside the orphanage was bleak and the days held little variation until he’d gotten old enough to join the other “volunteers” from the orphanage to labor on the large collective farms during the warm summer months.

It was during one such time that Illya almost lost his life in an accident involving a dangerous, malfunctioning piece of farming equipment, but for the quick intervention of a burly farmer named Ivan. He was an enormous, coarse man with a rough exterior and kind heart for the small, serious child. In the process of pushing Illya out of the way, the unfortunate farmer had himself gotten caught up in the large farming machine. The man’s leg had been caught and crushed in the toppled over machine. In the rural, remote area of the collective, a doctor and proper medical care were unheard of luxuries.

Illya would never forget the sight and smell of the rich-red blood staining the earth, and the blood-curling sounds of the man’s screams as eventually, his rescuers having no other choice, resorted to simply sawing off his leg at the thigh without benefit of anesthesia.

It was a long time before he’d slept without waking shaking and sickened from the nightmare experience. Illya shuddered - what if Dr. Greenberg had to amputate his leg?

“....oral medications, extended periods of intravenous antibiotics, and in the worst case scenario: amputation.” Greenberg spoke carefully, unaware that his patient had already envisioned the worse case scenario - and was reacting accordingly.

Illya gasped, horror written on his face at the notion of losing his leg. “Nyet!” His loud protest made in Russian was a clear indication of the level of his distress. Greenberg abruptly stopped talking and looked at Illya.

“There’s nothing about your condition that indicates even a slight need for anything that extreme.” The U.N.C.L.E. physician hastily reassured. The older man laid a gentle hand on the young agent’s shoulder. “Why don’t you close your eyes and get some rest while I wait for the lab to finish testing your bone sample?” With one last pat on Illya’s shoulder, Dr. Greenberg walked away leaving him alone to contemplate his fate.

But rest was the last thing Illya thought himself capable of doing. His mind was plagued with chaotic thoughts. He alternated wondering how the Inquest was proceeding and seeing visions of himself as a one-legged amputee, crippled, no longer an active field enforcement agent in the organization to whom he’d given his loyalty.

The Russian breathed raggedly. Illya Kuryakin, for all his hard conditioning, intelligence, fierceness, and Machiavellian ruthlessness was in the end a man fully capable of feeling the full range of human emotions.

The emotion he was feeling now was fear.

 TBC

Feedback always appreciated.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any readers: we who live along the upper East Coast are at the beginning of a massive snow storm. While my fingers are crossed, I am prepared for a period that could last a few days when there will be no power. In anticipation of that event, I am going to post an update right now, otherwise it may be a while before one is posted.

 

 

In the moments before the Inquest resumed, the fingers of Napoleon Solo’s right hand were drumming out a quick staccato beat upon the table, signaling his impatience to get things underway. The room was abuzz with low chatter. No doubt everyone, whether they’d witnessed it or not, would be talking about Illya Kuryakin’s fall and the near fisticuffs that had erupted in the hallway. Somewhere in the periphery of his mind, he was aware that his counselor was unhappy with him. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care about that.

Though Napoleon’s body was present in the room, his heart was very much back at the infirmary. His nerves were just about frayed from the incident in the hallway. He couldn’t get the nightmare vision of Illya writhing on the floor in terrible pain, out of his mind. His Russian partner was stoic to a fault and had a high pain threshold to boot. Whatever damage Illya’s body had incurred due to Agent Beams shove, had to be severe. As he’d accompanied Illya to the infirmary, his facial expression dark and forbidding, he vowed he’d settle up with Beams later.

Reluctantly, he’d departed the medical unit shortly after the gurney bearing his partner had burst through its big double doors and disappeared into an examination room. Shortly afterwards, McKinney had attempted to all but push him out the door before he’d even heard a prognoses on Illya’s condition. It was more Dr. Greenberg’s firm assurances that Illya would be well taken care of, rather than Alistair McKinney’s dire prediction of forfeit should he fail to return, that compelled him to leave.

He regretted having to leave without even speaking to Illya first, but then been no time or opportunity.

Now as he sat at the table, a major part of his mind occupied with thoughts of how badly Illya had re-injured his leg.

Yi Chun inclined his head towards Helen Zimmerman. In response to his signal, the clerk activated the recorder once more.

“The time is now 1000 hours and the Inquest concerning Chief Enforcement Agent, Napoleon Solo has resumed. All concerned parties are once again present.” the senior board member intoned solemnly.

“We turn now to the matter of Agent Archer’s written testimony. Are there any objections to it being read into the record?” Yi Chun asked of McKinney.

McKinney rose and vigorously stated his objections, the chief one being the inherit unfairness of allowing in testimony not subject to cross examination. The fact that Archer’s report had been negative and accusatory in tone and substance was a point McKinney kept to himself as it would have been a naive argument.

Napoleon and McKinney had examined the document together. Afterwards, Napoleon hadn’t said a word. There was no need to. Archer, just as Beams had tried to do, was attempting to stab him in the back. He didn’t have time to indulge in useless feelings of betrayal. He needed to find out what had happened.

He felt sure that his assessment about Archer had been correct, that he was a good man and solid agent. But then again, he’d been uncharacteristically wrong about Beams. There _had_ to be a reason for the sudden treachery and it was only a matter of time before he unearthed the root cause of it. He vowed that he would talk to Archer when the other man returned from his current assignment. The problem was he had no idea when Archer would return to the Washington D.C. office.

He just preferred that it be sooner rather than later.

Of the three board members, Stewart Rolf, appeared to be most sympathetic to McKinney’s argument. Unfortunately, the end result was that the objection was over ruled and Helen Zimmerman was ordered to read the document into the record.

The attractive woman pushed her red hair back behind her ear and flashed an apologetic looking expression Napoleon’s way before she commenced reading.

Napoleon listened stone-faced as the condemning words were read aloud.

When Helen finished reading she fixed her green eyes on Napoleon as if willing him to accept an unspoken invitation to make it up to him in a more “intimate” setting. Napoleon spared a slight smile for the woman he’d dated once or twice in the past. He’d read her invitation loud and clear, but no, her brand of apology wasn’t required. The gentlemen in him simply had no wish for the lovely U.N.C.L.E. woman to feel guilty about something she’d had no control over.

There was a brief silence as Yi Chun consulted the procedural guide. Satisfied that all was in order, the diminutive man looked directly at Napoleon. “Mr. Solo, the board has reviewed your written report on the Masked Ball Affair. I’m sure your attorney has advised you of your right to refuse to testify on your behalf; however, I speak on behalf of all the board members and we would very much like to hear what you have to say. Do you have anything you wish to explain?’

“Chief Enforcement Agent Napoleon Solo wishes to take the stand.” McKinney answered on his client’s behalf.

“Agent Solo.” Yi Chun inclined his head slightly towards Napoleon.

Solo rose from his chair and with his customary masculine grace and confident, commanding look, walked to the witness box. Regrettably, his exterior appearance had very little to do with how he actually felt on the inside. Much to his chagrin, a sudden dry desert had sprung up in his mouth and in reality, the short walk felt to him more like a very long walk off a very short plank. He despised himself for his weakness knowing that he had faced far worse situations as an U.N.C.L.E. operative and scarcely batted an eye.

Up until now the list of things that did and did not bother him had been a fairly straightforward one, consisting of things that predictably fit comfortably into his psychological make-up. On one hand, he didn’t fear enemy bullets, or being out numbered in a fight against swarms of Thrushies. On the other hand, just the thought of a newly purchased, tailor-made suit being hopelessly dirtied or damaged in the line of duty made him break out in a sweat. He could deal remarkable well with the rigors of interrogation by his enemies, but having to defend his actions in front of his peers and superiors now at an Inquest was something he dreaded more than all his past encounters with Thrush put together.

Intellectually, he understood the need for U.N.C.L.E. to have an established process for examining the actions of its own agents, but that didn’t stop him from deep inside feeling betrayed and angry, primarily at Alexander Waverly for having convened the Inquest at all.

He felt humiliated that the hard sacrifices made for U.N.C.L.E., the astounding successes at countless missions, and his meteoric rise to the top as Waverly’s heir apparent had brought him to this point where his judgment, and even his loyalty would be publicly scrutinized and judged. Smart agents, loyal agents, competent ones did not get hauled in front of boards, their every move dissected and second-guessed.

He’d tried hard to deny his simmering anger at Waverly. Tried and failed.

Napoleon resolutely sat down, crossing one leg over the other and loosely clasping both hands around his knee. Looking out at the board members, he waited to field the first questions whose answers would no doubt, he believed, hasten the flushing of his career down the proverbial toilet.

Despite the internal conflict raging within, physically he looked the perfect picture of the U.N.C.L.E. New York CEA others were accustomed to seeing: a man in control; a man sure of the outcome; a man who cut quite the dashing figure.

Napoleon Solo was a master at creating an illusion when necessary.

  
*******

His testimony had been blessedly short. The board members actually spent more time asking him general questions about the impressive number of missions he’d been on and the overall stunning successes he’d racked up both before and after he’d been paired with Illya Kuryakin. The members alternated asking questions and Napoleon answered each one with surety, without hesitation just as McKinney had meticulously prepped him. The more fully engaged he’d become, the calmer his nerves became.

On the actual allegation of dereliction and abandonment of his assignment, Solo had been deliberately circumspect, preferring to focus on what _had_ been accomplished on the mission.

The poker faces staring back at him had given away no tells as to how his testimony was being received.

Yi Chun turned to his colleagues and spoke softly. Rolf and Witherspoon both nodded in apparent concurrence. Then Yi Chun addressed McKinney.  
“Is there anything you wish to ask your client?”

“A moment please,” McKinney responded. He rose from his chair and walked over to Napoleon. The counselor gave Napoleon an appraising look as if satisfying himself as to Napoleon’s state of mind. “There is something I’m sure we would all like to know Agent Solo. Do you believe that your friendship with Illya Kuryakin supersedes your loyalty to U.N.C.L.E.?”

Napoleon knew the question was coming - he‘d thought about it often enough, but being armed with foreknowledge was insufficient to keep the hard, cold expression from creeping into his eyes in response.

Solo opened his mouth to speak. He knew what he was supposed to say. He knew what he _should_ say and just how contritely he should say it.

But his heart and his instincts had other plans.

Napoleon looked at each of the men who sat in judgment of him. These were good men, fair men he told himself. He was convinced of that truth and thus the answer he fashioned while on the stand was not the well-crafted, McKinney-approved, pre-rehearsed one, but rather one that was birthed from his loyalty to the goals of U.N.C.L.E. and his knowledge of his own beliefs and moral values.

He rendered his answer slowly and deliberately. “The only thing that supersedes my loyalty to The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement is my loyalty to the concept of good triumphing over evil. That’s why you trust me to protect those things that U.N.C.L.E. holds sacred. When this organization gave me its trust it was because it believed that no matter what, I would use all of my skills, all of my talents - give my very life if necessary to do the right thing. All U.N.C.L.E. operatives understand that we are expendable. I accept that. Certainly Agent Kuryakin accepts that. But agents are not expendable for every mission or every circumstance.”

He paused and his gaze rested evenly upon each of the men before him. “Yes, I left the ballroom before the evening was over and I stand accused of having abandoned my assignment. I say I made a judgment call that involved correctly prioritizing the value of U.N.C.L.E. assets. This organization pays me to make those decisions. If not for my actions, we’d be at a memorial service rather than an Inquest.”

There was no other defense, nothing he could say to mitigate his actions. Napoleon smiled inwardly and it was a thing of bitter expression. He  
supposed he’d put the nail in the coffin lid and hammered it home for good measure by saying, “I stand by my decision. Faced with the same assessment, under similar circumstances, I’d do it again.”

At that, a collective rumble spontaneously erupted from the back of the room where the spectators sat. Yi Chun issued a stern warning for silence while Napoleon ignored the outburst.

He couldn’t however, ignore Alistair McKinney who now had the board’s permission to question him. The man was now standing before him, not speaking but regarding him for an uncomfortable moment that failed to pass quickly enough for his taste.

He looked into McKinney’s sharp, grey eyes and tried to estimate whether or not he’d burned his last bridge with his last, completely candid, off-script answer. Contrary to the condemnation he anticipated seeing in McKinney’s eyes, he rather thought the man was trying to suppress a pleased glint in his eye.

McKinney addressed his question to Napoleon, but his gaze was fixed on the three board members. “Mr. Solo, what exactly has prepared you to make the judgment calls expected of you?”

Of all the questions McKinney had prepped him with over and over again, that one had not been on the list. _So, I’m not the only one who’s gone off-script._ He briefly considered why McKinney should ask such a seemingly loaded question. “Well...,” Napoleon cleared his throat, trying to buy time while figuring out what McKinney wanted him to say.

Inconveniently, he had no idea.

Then his face hardened as a grim remembrance of the past sprang to mind. He began answering freely. “Many things. My up close and personal introduction to killing, courtesy of the Korean War before I was recruited to join U.N.C.L.E. for one. Certainly the training I received at Survival School is another.”

“Is that all?”

“No, of course not.” Napoleon slightly snapped. The annoyed feeling surprised him and he briefly wondered why that reaction before refocusing his thoughts on the question. How did one explain that of course, one relied on U.N.C.L.E. schoolhouse training derived from textbooks, and adherence to the organization’s standard operating procedures to achieve success on mission assignments?

That was well _and_ that was good, but then there was training by harsh experience - the kind every agent acquired in the field through the baptism of blood, either one’s own or their partner’s and sometimes it had very little to do with U.N.C.L.E. standard operating procedures or schoolhouse training.  
In the field, carefully laid mission plans could be blown to hell and the decisions of right and wrong, life or death would require other guidance beyond what U.N.C.L.E. could provide. Sometimes one had to find other sources of guidance.

To that end, there was much to learn from the missions of some of the greatest former operatives. Exceptional men and women, giants of their time who changed the course of history through great sacrifice and hardship. Some of them helped lay the very foundation for U.N.C.L.E. and constituted the current senior leadership. One had only to listen well, ask the discreet question when opportunity provided, or read between the lines of old historical records to learn some astonishing truths about what good operatives did and did not do when faced with impossibly difficult situations.

Occasionally, when all else failed, the weapon of last resort for a mission gone to hell lay in the inspiration derived from the actions of the great founders of U.N.C.L.E. in their own harrowing missions.

Understanding dawned on Napoleon - the root of his anger at The Old Man, exposed by the memory of what he had once learned about his boss. Waverly himself had once done as he had - abandoned an assignment for the sake of saving another man’s life, but Waverly had shown him little mercy.

McKinney and the board members were looking at him, waiting expectantly for his response. Wanting nothing more than to get off the stand, Napoleon succinctly summed it up for them. “I take U.N.C.L.E. policies and formal training seriously. They exist for good reason and they’ve helped me achieve success in the field. Unfortunately, they don’t provide every right answer, in all circumstances. At the end of the day, whatever course of action I chose, as a representative of this organization and as a man, I have to be able to look myself in the mirror and know I did the right thing. Gentlemen, judging by your seniority, that is a truth of which I believe you and even U.N.C.L.E.’s founders are aware.”

McKinney nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “I have no further questions for Mr. Solo.”

The board members quietly conferred with one another before Yi Chun addressed Napoleon. “You may return to your table.”

Solo rose in one graceful motion. Under the watchful eyes of the spectators, he smoothed down his suit jacket before walking back to his table. He sank down on to his hard chair and rubbed his forehead gently. He had the beginnings of a headache and his empty stomach had begun making not so subtle reminders that he’d neglected to put anything in it that morning.

It was nearing lunchtime and if given the chance, he’d spend it by first, buying lunch for himself and Illya at the commissary, and second, sharing the meal with his partner in the infirmary. Though he’d been forced to leave before Dr. Greenberg had rendered a diagnosis, there was no doubt in his mind that Illya’s failure to reappear at the Inquest meant that he’d been hospitalized.

He was unashamedly anxious to check on his partner. The board members looked unashamedly ready for lunch as they began packing up notebooks and folders.

Yi Chun had the discipline to ask McKinney first if he had any further witnesses to call. Napoleon thought the man’s face was clearly communicating that the correct answer was that any additional witnesses would be called after lunch. Good.

“I will be calling one more witness - after lunch.” McKinney astutely replied.

“Very well. You may call your next witness after lunch. And who do you intend to call?” Yi Chun inquired.

“I intend to call Mr. Alexander Waverly to the stand.”

Luckily for Solo, the mouth that gapped open was only the one he imaged in his head.

 

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

  
Napoleon balanced the two trays of meals and beverages while simultaneously using his backside to slowly open the infirmary double doors and back in.

The chatter from the two young nurses behind the small nurses’ station abruptly halted as both young women, one blonde, the other brunette, called out pleasant greetings and offers to assist him with his trays.

Napoleon smiled winsomely. “That’s all right ladies. Can tell me where I can find my partner?” He hoped for Illya’s sake that he’d been given one of the few private rooms in the U.N.C.L.E. clinic instead of being confined to the general ward where there was no privacy.

“Of course, Mr. Solo,” the attractive brunette replied. “He’s in room four.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Solo,” came the somewhat wistful sounding reply.

He walked away and missed the admiring glances of the nurses as they checked out his fit, stylish back view before resuming their work.

Napoleon rounded the corner and proceeded down the corridor to Illya’s room and in the process, nearly collided with the statuesque form of the senior nurse, Lavina Richardson. “Pardon me, Lavina.” Napoleon was not a particularly a tall man, but he was unaccustomed to having to look up to see a woman’s face. The black woman with her sparkling eyes and regal smile, practically towered over him. When she spoke, her dark eyes turned the slightest bit darker and her lips compressed into a more serious attitude.

“Mr. Solo...”

“Please, Lavina, it’s Napoleon to you, remember?”

She smiled warmly again. “Napoleon,” she acquiesced. “You are going to see your partner, yes?”

“Yes.” His gut clenched. “Is everything all right?”

“Mr. Kurya - Illya’s a little demoralized right now. I’m not sure, but I think he’s having a difficult time accepting that he’s ill enough to have to stay here for the foreseeable future. I hate seeing him out of sorts.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Napoleon responded while silently wondering how the nurse knew Illya well enough to tell that the Russian was ‘out of sorts’. After all, Illya was one for keeping his emotions close to the vest and on a good day, his demeanor with most was that of polite, professional remoteness.

Napoleon’s heart fell. “Why does he have to stay here for an indefinite time?”

Richardson’s graceful hand touched him lightly on the arm and she answered gently. “Talk to him first. If you have any questions in an official capacity, Dr. Greenberg will be happy to answer.” Excusing herself, the senior nurse walked away.

Napoleon found himself once again using his backside to push open another door. This one happened to be conveniently ajar and it swung open easily.

Napoleon stepped inside and turned around.

He found Illya sitting up in bed. The young Russian was staring at the wall, a pensive expression on his handsome face. He appeared not to have noticed Napoleon’s entrance into the room. He took advantage of that to study his lover.

Illya was wearing the hated hospital gown, his left leg was uncasted and held straight by an uncomfortable-looking contraption. Instead of an IV line going into his hand, there was a long, thin tube leading into his upper right arm.

Napoleon wanted nothing more than to cross the room, put down the trays and take the slim man into his arms to love the brooding expression off his face. He didn’t dare though. Not for lack of privacy, but because Napoleon knew that Illya could be as prickly as a porcupine when a morose mood struck him.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “Could you use some company?”

Illya’s head turned quickly, a move Napoleon thought was meant to cover the other’s surprise and embarrassment at being caught starring unawares. Apparently though, the reticent Russian found it acceptable to allow his emotions to convey how pleased he was to see him. Illya made no visible attempt to quell the light shining in the beautiful blue eyes, nor the small smile that transformed his features.

“Napasha.”

Napoleon grinned as he crossed the room and put the trays of food down on the end of Illya’s bed. Then he removed his jacket, carefully draping it over a chair.

“I’m starving and I brought you your favorite sandwich from the commissary - roast beef, provolone and tomato on seedless rye.” Napoleon efficiently got his partner situated with his meal, then he did likewise for himself. In a complete reversal of habits, Napoleon fell on his food, liberating the deli-sandwich from its wrapping and devouring it with great gusto. Illya, on the other hand, merely picked at his sandwich, clearly uninterested in eating it.

Napoleon couldn’t help but notice his partner’s lack of appetite and pensive mood. In an effort to get him to try and eat more, he tried a little humor knowing Illya’s abhorrence of ketchup. He leaned forward and said in a mock serious tone, “Don’t you like your sandwich? I assure you, _Tovarisch_ , no ketchup bottles were anywhere in the vicinity when it was made.” The attempt earned him the slightest of smiles from the ailing Russian - so quickly gone that Napoleon would have missed it had he not been watching his partner’s pale face.

“It’s what happened to it _after_ it was given to you that concerns me,” Illya dryly commented.

Napoleon assumed an expression of feigned hurt. The moment passed and Illya’s shoulders slumped tiredly. “I appreciate this, Napoleon, but I am not hungry.”

“I can see that, but you still have to keep up your strength. You know that,” Napoleon gently chided. Illya dutifully took a bite of his sandwich - and promptly began gagging as his tray slid off his lap. The blond’s eyes went wide and he frantically gestured for a glass of water.

Napoleon hastily placed his tray on the floor, leapt to his feet instead, pulling his partner further more upright while holding a napkin up to his mouth for him to spit out the offending bite. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Napoleon muttered, guilt-ridden as he saw his partner struggling to suppress the gagging, his face pale and miserable-looking.

Finally, the tormenting reaction ceased and Napoleon removed Illya’s tray before easing his partner back against the pillows and handing him a glass of water.

Illya’s eyes were averted while he sipped the water slowly. Napoleon’s concern increased by a notch. Just what had Dr. Greenberg told Illya about the state of his health? He had correctly surmised that Illya had not sustained any new additional breaks to the bone after his fall, but Illya looked more unwell then he had this morning. He moved the chair closer to the bedside, sat down and prepared to hear Illya’s diagnosis.

“What did Dr. Greenberg say?” Like a dentist’s drill, the question was direct and to the painful point.

Illya answered in kind. “He said I most likely have a bacterial or fungal bone infection.”

Napoleon frowned. “Most likely?”

“Yes. Well, apparently my blood tests were within normal range.” Illya shifted in the bed, then muttered sourly, “Somehow I doubt that will be true for long.”

With one hand, Illya pushed the shoulder of his gown down, baring his right shoulder. With the other hand he gestured over an area vaguely near his heart. “The tube attached to my upper arm runs through my armpit and into a vein in my neck and down into my heart. The medication goes directly into the main artery there so that my heart will pump it throughout my entire body. It takes weeks to complete the course of treatment.”

Napoleon tutted in sympathy for his partner‘s plight. Nonetheless, he felt enormously relieved. Illya was where he needed to be and he was receiving the medical care that would make him well. It was all a matter of time and as far as he was concerned, he had all the time in the world. But if it’s as simple as that, why is Illya avoiding my eyes?

He sought reinforcement for his positive outlook. “Once you get enough of the medicine it will kill the infection. Then you’ll be all right, correct?

The barest of hesitations, followed by a softy spoken, “Yes.”

Napoleon’s frown returned.

“But there’s more. What is it?”

Illya sighed. “There isn’t anything else.” But the Russian still would not look him in the eye and his hands clenched the blanket ever so slightly.

“I don’t believe you, _Tovarisch_ ,” he said forcefully. “I’m within my rights to order you to tell me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Please,” he added gently, “I’m asking as your friend.” Napoleon paused and swallowed hard, then even more gently added, “I’m asking as your lover.”

Illya closed his eyes and silence reigned for a brief time. Finally, Napoleon’s plea yielded the sought-after result and Illya spoke softly. “The medicine may not work. If it doesn’t, Dr. Greenberg promised that I’ll be subjected to all kinds of...unpleasant medical treatment to keep my leg bone from dying.”

Napoleon knew the next logical question, but the way he was feeling he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to know the answer. He asked anyway. “And what happens if the other treatments don’t work?”

Napoleon watched as Illya’s hands, still reflexively clenching around the blanket’s edge, stilled. The Russian opened his eyes and slowly, the blond-haired head turned to face him. Napoleon’s heart jolted in shock, for when he looked into his partner’s eyes he saw swirling in the transparent depths, a fear of a kind that he’d never seen before; a thing of awesome terribleness.

A nameless terror stalked his lover and Illya had trusted Napoleon enough to reveal that to him. “What? What is it?” he demanded, and waited patiently.

“Amputation,” Illya finally whispered. “If the drugs don’t work, and if scraping the bone doesn’t work, he’ll want to cut off my leg to keep my body from going septic.”

Napoleon felt some corner of his mind look for the dark, comforting cave of denial in which to hide. Amputation? Napoleon stared in disbelief. His partner couldn’t become that ill, he’d only broken his leg, for God’s sake! He himself had broken his leg before. Hell, he’d suffered the indignity of having both legs broken at the same time even. A broken leg shouldn’t end in amputation.

Illya’s voice, with its sudden desperate-sounding tone, snapped him out of the vortex of confused musings like a cut from a sharp knife to his heart. He looked at at his partner. The younger man’s eyes, grown suddenly bright with fever, stared hard back at him, seemingly penetrating through flesh and bone, reaching directly into his soul. “I won’t let them take my leg, Napasha! Don’t let them do that to me, _skazhete pozhluista._ ”* Napoleon’s tough-as-nails partner was shaking. The medications coursing through his system were wreaking havoc with his emotions, exaggerating his fear and dread of a remote possibility.

“You’re not going to lose your leg, Illyusha,” Napoleon replied automatically.

“Promise me, Napoleon. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Napoleon replied, desperate to sooth him as Illya waged a battle to regain control of himself.

A minute later the slim body was still shaking.

Napoleon waged his own battle against a rising sense of alarm. “Should I get a doctor or nurse?”

Illya shook his head and took a deep breath. Then he exhaled slowly and gradually, the shaking stopped. “No. No,” he repeated. He looked at Napoleon and his face reddened in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Napoleon. I am better now. Please forgive me for that...hysterical display.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Napoleon laid his arm gently on Illya’s undamaged leg. The Russian did indeed appear better. Even the bright, glazed look in his eyes seemed to have diminished considerably.

Now that the crisis had passed, Napoleon glanced at his watch. He had twenty minutes before he had to return to the Inquest. Soon enough, he’d discover what his attorney had planned for Mr. Waverly.

His face must be telegraphing something other than anxiety for Illya, for the Russian asked, “What is it, Napoleon?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing Napoleon. It is something and I want to know what it is.”

Napoleon felt on the spot. Illya had shared his fear with him and it was only fair that he answer his question. However, Napoleon, mindful of his instincts, balked at burdening Illya when he was sick.

“Ah...McKinney’s calling Mr. Waverly to the stand.”

“What? Did you know about that?”

Napoleon shook his head. “No.”

“You spent all that time with him preparing and he never told you what he was planning to do?” Illya asked, sounding incredulous.

“Let’s just say...it wasn’t in plan A.” With regret he added, “I’m sorry, Illya, but I have to go back now.” He stood up, and made ready to leave by putting his suit jacket back on and stacking both trays neatly on top of each other. He turned a devilish grin on his partner. “A man like McKinney always has a backup plan. He would have made an excellent Section Two operative, you know.”

Illya snorted rudely though his eyes were soft with affection. “With you for a client, the man had better be as good as one.”

Napoleon gave his partner’s good leg a gentle encouraging squeeze. He crossed the room and opened the door. “I’ll see you later.” Then he slipped out leaving Illya to contemplate the mystery of Alexander Waverly’s appearance at his Inquest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blizzard has passed and the house is still standing. Yeah. 
> 
>  
> 
> * Please
> 
> Thanks go to Sparky955 and Elijahwildchild for assistance rendered in this particular chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

Napoleon read the clock from where he was seated. The hands showing 12:59pm were inching their way towards the resumption of the Inquest and thus the end of his personal time-out from career hell. The rollercoaster ride his professional life had become was again gearing up to trudge uphill and plunge downwards on the track with him holding on without a seatbelt.

The lunchtime visit with Illya had briefly inserted him into his partner’s nightmare. Now he was back in his, but still reeling from not only what Illya had told him about his leg, but from the Russian’s profound emotional reaction as well. Not that he blamed him. If his own career should come to an end, he would still have two legs upon which to walk away. If Illya’s career should come to an end it would because he had lost a part of himself that he could never get back again, neither as a man, nor as an agent.

There had never been any one-legged operatives in U.N.C.L.E., nor would there ever be, Solo bleakly acknowledged.

Suddenly the chatter from the growing crowd in the peanut gallery died down and Solo knew without looking that all eyes were on him. Watching. Waiting. He could practically feel the weight of those expectant stares on his back- and the silent judgments they represented. He rolled his shoulders as if to shrug them off.

“The time is 1300, all parties are present and the Inquest will now resume.” Yi Chun made the perfunctory announcement wearing something other than his normally placid, inscrutable expression. The eyebrows looking slightly raised and the dark eyes looking uncharacteristically wide and bright caught Solo’s attention. _The man looks positively animated_.

Finding the phenomenon neither a portent of evil things to come nor something from which to derive comfort, Napoleon directed his attention towards Alistair McKinney, willing the man to make eye contact. McKinney, however; remained stubbornly otherwise occupied and did not acknowledge his presence as he sat ram-rod straight, scribbling something Solo could not decipher from his vantage point.

“Mr. McKinney, are you ready to call your next witness?”

McKinney ceased writing and stood up. “I am.”

“Proceed.”

“I call Alexander Waverly to the stand.”

As if on cue, the sliding door to the adjoining room opened revealing Number One, Section One of the U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters.

Alexander Waverly was impeccably dressed, wearing his customary tweed suit. The pipe, which normally adorned his hand like an accessory, was absent. His hair, faded from its brown glory, was perfectly groomed. The overly-long hairs of the brows on the leathery face were so precisely shaped like wings as to have achieved that state only through deliberate combing.

He was scowling.

Napoleon had seen that expression often enough to surmise its meaning. Somehow, the Old Man had lost control of the ball and was irritated about being somewhere doing something he neither thought necessary nor desirable.

_Good_. Napoleon briefly allowed himself the uncharitable thought, for the embers of anger still smoldered in his heart and threatened to ignite every time he thought about how his boss could have found a way around holding an Inquest altogether.

Mr. Waverly strode forward on legs steady and sure, not at all the gait of the stiff and aged. When he reached the witness stand he sat down. “Gentlemen,” Waverly acknowledged the three members of the panel.

Yi Chun returned the acknowledgement on behalf of the board.

Alistair McKinney walked to the front of the witness stand. “Mr. Waverly, good day to you.”

“Alistair,” Waverly returned the greeting, looking at the prim attorney with a scowl and pale blue eyes that clearly conveyed a wish to be elsewhere. “Yes, well you know I am a very busy man.”

“Of course, Mr. Waverly. I just have a few questions for you.”

He uttered not a sound but Waverly’s silent harrumph transmitted quite easily through his body language.

“Would you state your full name for the record?”

“Alexander...Fenton Waverly.” The scowl, it seemed to Napoleon, deepened impossibly further. The corner of Napoleon’s mouth lifted slightly. When this was all said and done, McKinney would pay for summoning The Old Man, yes indeed.

“What did you tell Mr. Solo regarding his assignment?”

Thus commenced an excruciating review of the whys and the wherefores of the Masked Ball Affair tasking. Listening to the testimony, Napoleon tried and failed to get a read on The Old Man. While he recognized that the strategy of properly laying a foundation was an integral part of McKinney’s exacting professional competence, it was essentially the same testimony he himself had already given.

His attention began to drift, and his mind busied itself considering other weighty matters such as whether or not the red stain on his favorite white dress shirt he’d dropped off at Del Floria’s was permanent, and at the end of the day, how sore was his ass going to be sitting on the hard wooden chair, or which THRUSH operative it was he’d encountered who wore a similar ill-fitting toupee to George Witherspoon’s.

From the periphery of his hearing he heard McKinney’s next question: “Mr. Waverly, by whose order was this Inquest convened?”

“By my request, of course,” Waverly said, sounding annoyed at the obvious question.

“For what reason?”

“Surely you are familiar with the matters to be considered,” Waverly sharply replied.

“Yes, Sir, indulge me, please.” McKinney responded. His attitude Napoleon knew was deceptively deferential.

“Very well. The first matter under review is the manner in which Agent Solo concluded the assignment, better known as The Masked Ball Affair. The facts suggest that Mr. Solo was derelict in the performance of his duties in doing so. The primary matter of course concerns the untimely death of Dr. Manheim Phoenix.” Waverly cleared his throat and the next words contained a fresh resurgence of his displeasure. “To be more precise, the manner in which a high-value enemy source died at Agent Solo’s hands.”

“Sir, approximately how many Inquests have you requested be convened since becoming Number One, Section One?”

“I can recall the unpleasant necessity not more than 10 times.”

“How many times for dereliction of duty?”

“None... until today that is.”

Napoleon blinked and the prim and proper Alistair McKinney easily slid into the role of predator. “And why is that, Alexander?” he asked softly.

So it’s Alexander now, Napoleon thought.

Waverly shifted in his chair, stilling his hand from an unconscious seeking of the pipe it customarily held. He cleared his throat instead. “The facts of each case being considered did not warrant it.”

McKinney eyed Waverly speculatively. “And they do in this case?”

Waverly appeared reluctant to answer. There was silence until finally the wily old fox of a man looked directly at Napoleon and said, “The circumstances warrant it.”

Waverly’s response had an instantaneous effect on Napoleon. Alert, he looked from his boss to his counselor, saluting McKinney with a mental touché. McKinney’s deft wringing of the statement was tantamount to an admission that his actions alone had not actually warranted an allegation of dereliction of duty. So, the Old Man was pursuing an undisclosed agenda. But what?

His faith in his boss that had wavered so of late tentatively revived, but he remained as conflicted as before regarding how he felt about Waverly. Why hadn’t his boss trusted him enough to let him in on the real agenda? Then there was the relief he was not too proud to admit he felt at knowing that his possibly his boss did not really believe so ill of his competence as an agent. Second to Illya’s, the man whose opinion counted the most to him was Alexander Waverly’s.

But even if Waverly believed his actions were justified, nothing, Napoleon knew, superseded Waverly’s dedication to U.N.C.L.E. and the belief that all agents were expendable. If his career was sacrificed in the process of whatever agenda Waverly was pursuing, then Solo had no doubt the Old Man would consider his career collateral damage, albeit with regret.

McKinney moved directly in front of Mr. Waverly. “And what are those circumstances?”

Old but keen blue eyes regarded the lawyer shrewdly. “If I were at liberty to say, I would no doubt do so. But since I am not, young man, you would do well to refrain from asking.”

McKinney accepted the refusal gracefully enough, but then the tone in his voice left little doubt that he would have his next set of questions answered, Waverly’s lack of liberty not withstanding. He commenced asking a series of questions concerning Solo’s past assignments and his meteoric rise as U.N.C.L.E. New York’s heir apparent, all of which Waverly answered succinctly, his no-nonsense attitude occasionally hinting at an almost paternal-like pride.

When he was finished with that line of questioning, McKinney seemingly switched tracks and asked about Waverly’s own career experience with training and mentoring while rising through the ranks of the British Secret Intelligence Service saying, “Mr. Waverly, recall your early years working for British Intelligence if you can. Did you receive formal training then?”

A slightly bemused expression crossed Waverly’s leathery face. “Of course I can recall it, young man. I only look as old as Methuselah.”

Napoleon looked down discreetly as the crowd behind him chuckled.

Waverly continued patiently: “Even in those days we had formal training for standard operating procedures and protocol - oh not as institutionalized as what we have now in U.N.C.L.E. of course - but never-the-less, it existed.

McKinney nodded. “Of course. And just how closely did your superiors demand that you strictly adhere to formal procedures and protocol when carrying out your missions?”

Waverly’s lips curved into a smile bereft of humor. “Standard operating procedures and protocol are the bedrock upon which disciplined agents make decisions. The man or woman who fails to grasp either cannot be trusted to carry out difficult missions.”

“Are you telling us that agents are expected to make all mission decisions solely from a rigid adherence to formal rules?”

“That is hardly the case. Standard operating procedures and protocol do not, out of necessity, concern themselves with the minutiae of every possible action in carrying out one’s duty. They do address how this particular organization defines duty and how it expects its agents to demonstrate professional competence and commitment in carrying out assignments. There are consequences when these things are violated.”

McKinney’s expression was unreadable. The lawyer paused then smoothly changed topics. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Waverly that you had a mentor who taught you invaluable field tradecraft and leadership skills acquired through experience?”

McKinney’s subtle shift from direct questioning to cross-examination mode was not lost on Napoleon.

“I’ve always been a practical man, Alistair. I’ve made it my business to learn and benefit from the experiences of others.” The bushy brows in the stern, leathery face knitted together. “After all, leadership is best taught by example.”

“And what of Napoleon Solo? Have you not, in turn, acted as his mentor?”

The pale eyes glanced Solo’s way. “Mr. Solo showed exceptional abilities even before he associated himself with U.N.C.L.E.. I would have been remiss in my duties in not advising and guiding him so that he could reach his full potential.”

Napoleon shifted in the seat that seemed to be growing ever less accommodating. He did not know why, but he was beginning to feel the tendrils of disquiet, sparked by McKinney’s line of questioning.

“Isn’t it true that in that process, you shared your own experiences in the field with Mr. Solo for instructional purposes?” McKinney asked.

“I have from time to time discussed with Mr. Solo my past missions whenever I determined there was something to be learned from my experiences,” Waverly agreed dryly.

“And you did this because you are grooming Napoleon Solo for the job of Number One, Section One, isn’t that true?”

The tendrils of disquiet turned into tightening vines around Napoleon’s guts. He was beginning to have an idea where McKinney was leading Waverly.   
They’d discussed the affair only once and Napoleon had been strongly opposed to using the information for his own gain. He turned the matter over in his mind and found he still felt the same. Don’t do it, Napoleon urged with non-existent powers of telepathy.

But the train continued down the track anyway.

“I did it because the man who will one day sit in my chair can ill afford to be ignorant of the past - particularly when it still has the power to shape the present,” Waverly answered.

McKinney regarded Waverly in silence for a moment. “Yet you chose not to tell your heir apparent about the Czechoslovakia Affair did you not, Mr. Waverly?”

Napoleon watched with a mixture of regret and fascination as Alexander Waverly’s customary stern, but paternalistic expression hardened into something cold and forbidding.

“What do you know about Czechoslovakia?” Waverly coolly challenged.

McKinney got up close, speaking softly as if for Waverly’s ears only. “I know what you know and so does Napoleon, Alexander. You knew he’d never speak of it, but you counted on me to find out.”

McKinney stepped back. “After WWII you were dispatched on an official mission inside the former Czechoslovakia, correct?”

There was silence as Napoleon observed the ghosts of old memories arise again in his boss’s eyes.

“Alexander?” McKinney prompted respectfully.

Waverly bristled and answered gruffly, “Yes - as apparently you well know.”   
  
Reaching inside his jacket’s inner pocket, McKinney drew forth what looked to Napoleon like a photograph. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Waverly, that like Agent Solo, you once left your assignment without authority, in order to save the life of someone you considered to be your friend?” McKinney paused. Then he gently laid the photograph down upon Waverly’s lap. “This is the man whose life meant more than strict adherence to protocol and standard operating procedures, is it not?”

Waverly picked up the photograph. He studied it, frowning all the while. “What is the meaning of this, Alistair?” he finally asked. “I’m quite sure I don’t know this broken-down old man.”

“He is greatly changed since you last saw him more than 20 years ago.”

Time seemed to stand still while Waverly looked again, closer this time.   
The sudden paling of his face, the slight trembling of the hand holding the photograph conveyed the dawning of realization. Waverly looked up, not quite able to disguise his gasp of astonishment. “Good heavens! This can’t be him. The years have eaten him alive!”

“It _is_ your friend. I’m sorry Alexander, Albert Goering died last year - alone and broke.” The austere face looked upon the unsettled face of Mr. Waverly with compassion. “You chose to disregard your orders because you deemed his life more important, just as Napoleon Solo deemed Illya Kuryakin’s life more important. Isn’t that true?”

“It was a folly I wished not to share with Mr. Solo,” came the bitter answer.

“It was leadership by example.”

Waverly glanced over at the board members and something like a sigh escaped his lips. “By their faces, it appears that our board members require elucidation of the incident in question.”

“The context would be helpful in fully appreciating the relevancy of the matter to Mr. Solo’s case,” McKinney offered respectfully.

“Very well.” Waverly turned towards the board members and his aged eyes took on a inward-looking far away expression. “In my younger days...

  
**_Pilsen, The Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, (Formerly Czechoslovakia) March, 1940_ **

_The fog was thick that night in the land that had once been known as the country of Czechoslovakia. In the absence of natural moonlight, the city of Pilsen looked like a dull painting on an old canvas. Collar of his trench coat up, and with the brim of his hat half-shading his face, Alexander Waverly stood cloaked in the shadows of the looming stone and brick buildings across the street from what had been known as one of the factories comprising the giant of industry, Skoda Works - that was until those with more ambition and might made it their own renaming it the Hermann Göring Werke. Even so, most who remembered where their loyalties lay still called the factory, ‘Skoda’. No matter the name, it was an arms munitions factory of enormous importance to the German Reich, and those who labored in it were no longer free men, but mere tools that kept the beast fed._

_Despite the fact that he was standing outside in the deep chill of an early spring evening, Alexander didn’t move except to intermittently take a few quick puffs from one of the cheap cigarettes everyone smoked these days. The vague promise he’d made to his wife to quit one day flittered at the edge of his conscious thoughts. The cigarette burned down to a stub and he threw it on the ground, grinding it out with his heel. Oh he’d quit - one day if he lived through the war that threatened to engulf the world, that is. In the meantime he continued to watch closely for the sign that would tell him when it was safe to meet with his contact. As foggy as it was, his greatest fear was in missing the signal._

_The MI6 operative stared at the darkened window of the structure’s left-hand, third floor corner office. The building’s appearance in the eerie foggy night gave the impression that the colors in the world had all been leached out in the tide of war, leaving only the starkly contrasting shades of black and white and myriad shades of grey. How odd then to be in this place, in this formerly free country now occupied by Nazi Germany and be reminded of London, for he was far from the sanity of those beloved shores. Odder still was the man he’d been sent to seek out - the man who was central to his mission in this place where mercy and reason had long since fled, leaving an abundance of madness and death in its place._

_When he‘d first heard the name of the man who he was to meet, his reaction had been less than professional. He remembered how his boss had come to him, easing his considerable bulk into the one spare chair in the cramped space. His boss had silently regarded him. Finally he’d spoken, “Our London office has received a cable from a source in the Czech underground. There is a Level One source who wishes to share intel, but he insists he will only do it directly to one of our operatives.” He paused. “ Alexander, you will go to the Skoda factory at Pilsen. You will make contact with an Albert Goering, the general manager, and debrief him.3”_

_He’d been taken aback. “Sir, if that is supposed to be a joke, I fail to see the humor. Ordering me to meet with the younger brother of Hermann Goering when the elder is Hitler‘s top animal and his savagery well known is tantamount to suicide.”_

_“You forget yourself, Alexander.” His boss’s tone was hard, but his face conveyed understanding at the seemingly ridiculous tasking._

_Alexander had taken a deep breath and gotten a hold of himself before speaking much more calmly: “I assume then that the intel which would lead MI6 to conclude that Albert is not a loyal Nazi comes from the highest, most reliable source.”_

_His boss’s grin was sly, “As the axiom goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But in this case, it’s greatly rumored that there are two different trees, thus two very different apples.”_

_That was that. Incredibly, he’d been ordered to meet with the brother of Hitler’s second-in-command and so he would. He didn’t have to like it, and he certainly didn‘t have to believe in his heart that this Albert Goering wasn’t a true Nazi believer with innocent blood on his hands just as his older brother. If British intel turned out to be wrong, then Albert would summon the Gestapo and afterwards, he would count himself lucky if he were only summarily lined up and executed on the spot._

_Waverly’s musing came to an abrupt end when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. He whirled around, weapon in hand, heart hammering. The footsteps stopped and a voice in the darkness spoke in Czech, “Excuse me, I have an extra coat for sale, would you like to buy it?’’ The footsteps came closer until a man in his thirty’s, wearing a brown winter coat, black scarf and wool hat materialized._

_Waverly breathed a sigh of relief but still did not lower his weapon. Instead he answered in Czech with his half of the oral bona fides, “Thank you, I have one, but perhaps my brother would like to see it.”_

_The man looked at him with a grave expression before he smiled and switched to English, saying, “Please, put away your gun.” Cautiously Waverly did so._

_This was Karel Sobota, member of the Czech resistance and Albert Goering‘s top employee at the factory. Alexander held out his hand, “I’m Felix Anderson.”_

_“Karel Sobota.” The Czech shook the offered hand. “Come, Albert is waiting. There is a back way inside, but we must take the long way around to ensure you will not be seen.”_

_Sobota led the way with Alexander following closely behind him. Every now and then Sobota would stop and they would fold themselves into the shadows between buildings in order to survey the streets. Everywhere Alexander looked he saw the signs of Nazi occupation. Businesses whose signs once proudly declared their Czech ownership had been replaced with German ones. Swastika flags were displayed everywhere and despite the lateness of the hour, the town’s Gestapo prisons were still receiving reluctant ‘guests’._

_Sobota gestured with his hand and they proceeded to cross the street and down an alley. Suddenly, his guide stopped. Alexander almost didn’t see the stone steps leading down to a door and it made Sobota look as though he was descending into the pavement. The younger man unlocked the door and they both stepped inside the factory._

_The old stone and brick factory was only partially lit and cold inside as if a reminder to those laboring that it was nighttime and as such, no one should still be there working. But the Germans were waging a war with a voracious appetite for the machine guns, tanks, and artillery being manufactured there. The factory never slept. Most times it was fully staffed, but here were off times when it was not. This was such a time._

_Sobota led him three flights up a spiral stairway and when they reached the top Alexander stopped to look over the railing into the open bay area. He paused for a moment to observe as two rows of busy workers labored around the conveyer belts bearing machine gun parts for assembly. He wondered about these workers toiling to survive as virtual slave labor for the German war machine. He could not help thinking disdainfully of Albert Goering, refusing to believe that the brother of Hermann Goering could be anything but a monster, ruling over these people with a cruel, iron fist._

_Sobota, sensing that the British agent was no longer following him, stopped and came back. He too watched for a moment. “You want to know what manner of man is it that keeps these men working here,” he said quietly. It was not a question._

_“I know more than I want to.”_

_Sobota’s deep brown eyes simmered with emotion. “You know nothing. But I will tell you this: the man you are going to meet has defied the travesty of his genealogy to openly scorn the Nazis. He despises them with everything that he has. He’s even cleverly used his own brother’s conceit to save the life of many a Jew. Herr Goering sees to it that each man here, Czech and non-Czech is treated humanely.”_

_Alexander tried and failed to keep his astonishment from showing on his face. Sobota looked at him a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “There is a saying about the apple - “_

_“But not when it falls from a different tree,” Alexander interrupted, smiling back wryly._

_“Come. Let’s not tarry here any longer.”_

_They were nearly at the end of the passageway when they stopped in front of the last closed office door. Karel Sobota knocked respectfully. The voice from inside bade them enter in German. “Wait a moment,” Sobota said._

_He entered first and quietly announced Anderson’s presence._

_Sobota opened the door and beckoned Waverly inside. He entered and immediately focused on the tall man with dark brown hair. With his back to the door and his hands clasped behind his back he cut a striking figure in his tailored suit. The man turned and Alexander found himself looking into a pair of deep-brown eyes, gentle as a doe. His face bore not the expression of jovial cruelty as did his brother’s, but rather one of warmth and sincerity._

_So this was Albert Goering..0_

_“You are a long way from the Queen’s realm. Allow me to offer you what hospitality I can,” Albert said in his accented English. “Please, sit down.” He gestured with his hand towards a comfortable chair covered in rich leather in front of his desk._

_Karel Sobota moved to a discreet corner in the back of the room. Alexander settled himself comfortably into the chair and as he did so, Albert Goering took a pipe, filled it with what was, no doubt, the finest of European tobaccos, and lit it. He sat quietly, puffing on his pipe, savoring its richness. Alexander found the smell most pleasant and he closed his eyes and enjoyed the aroma._

_“I have another pipe. Would you care for some?” Albert casually offered._

_“Yes, well...uh, I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a novice at using a pipe.” Alexander admitted. “I don’t imagine that this would be the right time and place to remedy that.”_

_“Nonsense.” Albert reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a second pipe and filled it with tobacco from his humidor. Alexander watched as his contact-cum-host trickled strands of tobacco into the pipe and then expertly used a tamper to compress it into the bowl. When he was finished, he stood up and held the pipe out to Alexander._

_He hesitated before taking it. Good Heavens, did he think the man was attempting to poison him? He looked again into the face of the man across from him and suddenly with clarity, understood that this was a man incapable of murder. He took the pipe and after the barest of hesitations, placed it to his lips. Albert came out from behind his desk and in on graceful motion, assisted him in lighting it._

_Alexander took a trial draw - and gamely tried to fight the coughing fit that immediately came upon him when the pungent smoke infused his lungs. He felt the flush creeping across his face as he coughed and sputtered and was inwardly irritated with himself. He was not a vain man, but he had no wish to appear unsophisticated in front of a source, especially this one who practically oozed refinement._

_“It will pass.” The German was looking down at him, a knowing, half-amused expression on his face. “Try again,” he said encouragingly when Alexander at last ceased coughing._

_Cautiously, Alexander did - and smiled with pleasure at the result. He took another puff and then he raised the pipe in Albert’s direction in a mock salute._

_Albert nodded his head in satisfaction. “Good, ja?”_

_“Quite.”_

_Albert returned to his seat behind his desk. “What is your name?” he asked kindly._

_“Felix Anderson.”_

_“Hmm, a good code name for you, my British friend.” Suddenly his voice hardened and he became very business-like. “Well, Felix Anderson, as you know, I am Albert Goering. My brother is Reichmarshal Hermann Goering. I will tell you now what neither your countrymen nor France knows.”_

_Casually, Albert took a puff from the pipe. “Hermann himself told me this: France will fall. Hitler will employ the strategy of blitzkrieg on her and when he does, he will plunder her like a virgin on her wedding night.” He took another puff. “He will launch the invasion on the 10th of May of this year.”_

_Alexander swallowed his shock at hearing so specific a strategic revelation and managed to assume a poker-faced expression. He absorbed the intel, turning over its implications in his mind before speaking. After a time he spoke calmly, “Thank you for this information.” He took a moment to take a few puffs from his own pipe. “As you know, there are many British soldiers and others in France at the moment and more will most certainly come prior to May.”_

_“There is still time for the Allied forces to prepare a defense, but I would suggest they plan on an evacuation,” Albert replied with brutal honesty._

_Alexander frowned. So far, the Allies had done not much more than negotiate and capitulate. That England should abandon France to her fate may be strategically practical, but still, it rankled him to hear that advice coming from the German’s mouth._

_Clearly, the meeting was over. He rose from his chair and attempted to hand back the pipe, but Albert refused to take it. “Keep it,” he said._

_“Thank you. I will see to it that this information reaches the proper ears.”_

_“Godspeed,” Albert replied, sounding sincere._

_Alexander held out his hand and Albert rose and shook it. He started to walk towards the door, away from this enigma of a man whom he knew he would most likely never see again. A sudden curiosity seized him and he turned around to give it voice. “How? How can you be so different from your brother?”_

_Albert stared back at him while a look of such profound sadness stole across his face. His sorrow seemed to age him before Alexander’s eyes and it cut his soul to the quick, causing his curiosity to flee in the wake of the shame at having ever asked the question. He didn’t understand his reaction. It wasn’t like him to indulge in sentimental emotions when his goal was information._

_But Albert answered him, his voice soft and dignified: “I hate the man who is the Reichmarshal and all that he represents, but I love the man who as my older brother, loved me first, protected me, comforted me. I can no more deny him than pretend that any of us will live through the conflagration that will ultimately consume Germany.”_

_At first Alexander was at a loss as to what to say. He opened his mouth on the hope that he’d say something vaguely pithy on his way out the door. What came out was anything but. “That need not be your fate, Albert,” he said softly. “I give you my word, if there is anything that I can do to see you live to survive past the dark times ahead, I will do it.”_

_The gentle brown eyes that gave Albert Goering such a doe-eyed appearance assessed Alexander until the sorrowful look faded from his face. He bowed his head slightly, “Yes. I believe you would. He smiled faintly, “Good bye to you Herr... Anderson.”_

_With that, Alexander opened the door and stepped out of the office with Karel Sorbota following silently behind him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art is a very early MFU art slash art attempt. 
> 
> The characters of Karl Sabato and Albert Goering were real men who lived through perilous times. I stumbled across Goering's story quite by accident and knew almost right away that it was meant to be told through the eyes of Mr. Waverly. Never in my life did I EVER think I would write an MFU story where Mr. Waverly would have a central part. Come to think of it, never thought I'd be writing an MFU story, period. 
> 
> According to Louis Bulow, “The famous Reichmarshal Hermann Goering aided Adolf Hitler's rise to power and for years he was second in importance only to Hitler in The Third Reich. As founder of the Gestapo, Hermann Goering was instrumental in creating the first concentration camps for political  
> dissidents and a prominent leader of the final solution, the murder of 6.000.000 Jews. Next to Hitler the man who played the largest part in the shaping of the Nazi inferno .
> 
> Albert Goering loathed all of Nazism's inhumanity and at the risk of his career, fortune and life, used his name and connections to save many Jews and gentiles. The parallel with Oscar Schindler is inevitable. The story of Albert Goering, however, is almost unknown - he was shoved into obscurity by the enormity of his brother's crimes. But testimonies of survivors and a report, buried until recently in British archives, documents that Albert Goering actually saved many lives from the horrors of Holocaust.”  
> Louis Bulow. “Albert Goering: The Good Brother.” 2007. .6


	19. Chapter 19

No one in the room, not even Napoleon Solo moved a muscle while Waverly was testifying. He could have heard a pin drop after Waverly finished speaking. Even McKinney seemed to be under a spell as the pause became pregnant. Finally, Yi Chun broke the uncomfortable silence by clearing his throat before speaking. “Mr. McKinney, with all due respect, I’m not sure how Mr. Waverly’s past experience is relevant to the deliberations of these proceedings.”

“It _is_ relevant. Mr. Waverly is the head of New York U.N.C.L.E.. There is no man more influential in this organization. He regularly shared his own past experiences with Mr. Solo for the purposes of instruction. It comes as no surprise then that when under similar exigent circumstances, Mr. Solo unconsciously followed his mentor’s example, regardless of whether or not Mr. Waverly wanted Mr. Solo to know about the business in Czechoslovakia.”

The board members discussed the matter amongst themselves for a moment and when they reached a decision, Yi Chun indicated that McKinney should continue with his line of questioning.

McKinney addressed Mr. Waverly. “You didn’t expect to see Albert Goering again, did you Mr. Waverly?”

Waverly shook his head. “I was certain that I would not and in the next four years I was rather...busy. I never thought about him during that time, not even when I returned on a mission to Czechoslovakia after the war ended.”

“But never the less, you did see him again, isn’t that true?”

Waverly pursed his lips “Yes, that is true. I did see Albert Goering again.”

“How, Mr. Waverly? What were the circumstances?”

“A terrible wrong was about to be committed.” Waverly gathered his thoughts before continuing.

“After the war I along with the rest of the world followed the progress of the German Nuremburg Tribunal. It was only after the major trial was over that I learned that Albert Goering had also been imprisoned and was to be tried in one of the subsequent proceedings. Justice prevailed and Albert was exonerated of any wrongdoing. He was released when those whose lives he saved came forward and spoke of his many acts of courage and defiance against the Nazis.”4 Waverly’s voice conveyed his admiration when he added, “I’m ashamed to say that even then I was surprised to hear of the breadth of his deeds. At the end of day I thought all’s well that end’s well. But I was wrong.”

“How so?”

“I learned through sheer coincidence that when Albert was released from the German prison he was in ill-health and the poor chap was as unemployable and broke as a church mouse. God only knows why, but the American military took it upon themselves to help the Czech investigating forces operating in Germany find and re-arrest him.

“If Nuremburg cleared him of wrongdoing, why did the Czech authorities arrest him?”

Waverly’s expression soured. “Willful ignorance. They wanted their pound of flesh since Hermann Goering was...unavailable.”

Napoleon knew that was his boss’s way of alluding to the fact that Hermann Goering had escaped the noose via suicide by cyanide poisoning.

Waverly continued, “I learned through a series of coincidence that Albert was convicted in a sham of a trial and sentenced to hang in Pilsen.”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

“No. Fortunately, he was spared that particular injustice.” There was no mistaking the mild sarcasm. McKinney ignored it and asked his next question:

“Isn’t it true that it was due to your intervention?”

“Time was of the essence,” Waverly replied succinctly.

“Precisely. You assessed the situation and chose to abandon your assignment to save Albert Goering’s life, isn’t that right? ”

“It was a rather inconvenient fact at the time. It is proving no less an inconvenient fact some twenty seven years later.” Napoleon kept his expression carefully neutral as the Old Man’s gaze rested on him. Once more a far-away expression stole across Waverly’s face...

  
**Strakonice, Czechoslovakia (The former Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia), October 1946**

_There was a sore on Europe that still festered underneath a thinly covering scab. Though the war had ended a year ago, world peace was still a fragile, uncertain thing. The Soviet hammer and sickle loomed terrible in its relentless determination to squelch hopes of democracy and enslave what was left of Eastern Europe. There were still former resistance fighters who did not wish to go gently into that night ruled by Communism._

_Alexander, cultivating the appearance of a man out for a casual walk, strolled down the sidewalk along the old cobblestone street in Srakonice. The weather already was already turning bitterly cold and the simple workingman’s clothing he wore to blend in with the general populace failed to keep him sufficiently warm._  
  
_His internal radar had told him that for some time after he’d arrived in Srakonice, he’d started being followed. His covert glances failed to detect the person conducting surveillance on him. He tucked the ends of the ratty wool scarf inside his work coat, dug his gloveless hands further into the jacket’s pockets, and kept walking._

_He was thinking that he was too old for this when he came upon a tavern that still had a sign with German lettering only partially covered over in Czech. Without hesitating he strolled inside, out of the biting cold, as if it were his destination all along. Alexander hoped to take the chill off and at the same time, flush out whoever was stalking him._

_Fortunately, there was a bright fire crackling in the fireplace. Other than that, the place looked dull and dreary. At the hour when daylight was just beginning to dwindle there were few patrons under the age of 70. They were all men - either seated at the bar or around various tables drinking ale. A few, whose old beat-up chess sets that had managed to survive the war intact, hunched over boards moving the pieces with fingers gnarled with age and arthritis. He looked at his watch, noting the time. He still had three hours to go before he was to rendezvous with the transportation that was to take him to his destination - and the target of his mission._

_He took a seat in the far corner where he could face the door and keep his back flush to the wall. From this vantage point he could both nurse a warm ale and watch for anyone entering._

_He sat with his posture clearly communicating his desire to be left alone. No one paid him any heed past the expected initial suspicious looks when he came through the door. He dressed like them, spoke Czech like them, therefore he was one of them. He’d be running for his life if someone had falsely accused him of being a former Nazi collaborator, or a stray German who had not had the good sense to have fled to the American lines at Pilsen, ahead of the advancing Red Army last year._

_It wasn’t the first time that Alexander would spend time contemplating the irony of his current mission, for the reason he was in Czechoslovakia was closely related to the latter potential accusation._

_His name was Dieter Grunewald, a prominent scientist and civil engineer who had been an integral part of the team of top German scientists that had refined the Nazi’s deadly V-2 rocket program in Munich. He had not, like the majority of his colleagues, voluntarily surrendered to the Americans, though not by choice, but by misfortune._

_As an ethnic German, Grunewald’s ancestral home was located in the outer-regions of the Sudetenland. At war’s end, Grunewald had returned for the purposes of ensuring that his wife left the country that would soon be occupied by the Soviets. However, his wife had not been there when he‘d arrived._

_Unbeknownst to him, she’d gone further east to stay with her own blood relatives in Vlasim. Grunewald arrived to reunite with his wife, but he’d subsequently taken seriously ill and could not evacuate until it was too late - Vlasim, all the way up to Pilson was now in the hands of the Soviets._

_He’d been in hiding for months, desperate to escape the clutches of the Soviets. Finally he’d been able to send a coded message to American intelligence, begging for help to escape Czechoslovakia. In a curious twist of fate, Grunewald’s message had been intercepted by British Intelligence instead._

_The intercepted message had sent British government officials gleefully scurrying to set a plan in motion to bring the scientist to Great Britain under the guise of having surrendered to the Americans._

_Alexander had just finished up an assignment in Germany and had been looking forward to heading home to England and his beloved wife, Alice, when he’d been diverted to Czechoslovakia. It was his task to slip back into Czechoslovakia, retrieve the scientist and personally escort him over the border into Austria where British authorities would be waiting for him._

_If all went according to plan, in a matter of hours he’d have Grunewald and they’d be on their way to the border, utilizing various modes of transportation and safe houses along the way._

_The door to the pub opened up just then and a man entered in and started walking straight towards him. The hairs on the back of Alexander’s neck suddenly stood up. He reached automatically inside his clothing for his familiar weapon that was not there - it would have been suicide if the Soviets were to find a weapon on him. He stared intently at the man who in turn, locked gazes with him through a scarf that half-covered his features. Slowly the man pulled down the scarf to reveal his face._

_He recognized the man at once. Deep brown, serious eyes, set in a face that, while lined with worry, still belonged to a young man. His mind fished for the name and found it. It was Karel Sobota, Albert Goering’s former assistant at Skoda Works._

_Karel spoke first. “Felix! So it is you,” he breathed. I believed at first my eyes were playing tricks on me. How did you come to be in my country still?”_

_“‘Again’ not ‘still’,” Alexander replied with a slight smile before assuming a more serious expression. “Please sit down, Karel.”_

_Karel obliged him, but instead of looking comfortable, the younger man fidgeted nervously._

_Hoping to put the man at ease with good rapport, Alexander said, “I’m glad to see that you’ve come through the war in fine shape.” inferno_

_“I am far less deserving than many I know,” Karel replied in a tone so deeply steeped in bitterness that Alexander was taken aback._

_“Good fortune comes to whomever it will and it’s pointless for any man to feel guilty about it,” Waverly replied pragmatically. What else could he say in the face of a war that had cost so many innocents their lives?_

_The younger man‘s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “How can you be so callous, Felix as if you yourself had not sworn an oath to help Albert Goering if you could?”_

_Puzzled, he looked at Karel through narrowed eyes, “What are you talking about? Was Albert not exonerated at Nuremberg and set free?”_

_Karel shook his head, looking frustrated. “While still in Germany, Albert was seized by Czech investigators who brought him back to Pilsen against his will. They’ve put him in prison under deplorable conditions. He’s to be hanged without benefit of a fair trial of any kind in less than three hours!”Karel was becoming distraught._

_Alexander was shocked and his mind tried in vain to fit the irrational into the rational, but he could no more do that than fit a square peg into a round hole._

_They were beginning to attract the attention of the other patrons. Old men stared at them from over their chess pieces. Raised tankards of ale stopped half-way to mouths. Alexander moved to calm the distressed man in front of him as best he could._

_The words he’d once said to Albert Goering to negate the other man’s belief that he would not live to see the end of the war, came back with vivid clarity._

_He’d given his word and his word represented his deeply-ingrained sense of honor. But Albert was not his responsibility. According to MI6, Dieter Grunewald, a Nazi scientist was his responsibility. He knew where his duty lay. Besides, what could he possibly do about the situation as unjust and repulsive as it was? But Alexander’s conscience spoke to him and its voice pricked his soul with a piercing sharpness. ‘Are you not your brother’s keeper?’_

_“But he’s not my brother.”_

_Mortified, Alexander realized he’d spoken aloud when he looked into the stricken eyes of Karel Sobota._

_Betrayed. There was no doubt that the younger man felt that way. “During the war, he was every man’s brother,” Karel said sadly. “But he is condemned to die only because he shares the same blood as that pig, Hermann.”_

_Karel abruptly stood up and made to leave. “For whatever reason you are here in my country, Felix, do it and get out. Many of us fought to liberate this country from the Nazis. Those of us who are willing to do more than just dream of democracy and justice will continue the fight against our Soviet masters. I will not sit by and let my friend be murdered in my country’s courts which they have so thoroughly perverted.”_

_Alexander fought desperately to squelch the internal battle that was fast intensifying. What his heart was telling him to do was unthinkable. Career suicide. One simply did not decide to abandon one’s assignment to pursue a personal one, no matter how noble. It was unthinkable. It was dereliction of duty. If he did what he knew was right, he would be finished in the British Intelligence community. And what of Dieter Grunewald? He was a scientist and engineer who had spent the war years in comfort, perfecting ways to kill the allied forces with technology. Was he more deserving of life than Albert Goering?_

_His next question was his undoing. “And what will you do, mount a one-man rescue attempt that will only result in your death?”_

_“I will do whatever must be done because that is what justice demands,” Karel said, his voice sorrowful and resigned. He turned and started to walk away._

_Alexander closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There could be only one course of action, irrevocable, dangerous - career ending. But in the end he would know that he had not forsaken a righteous man. “Wait…”_

*******

So enthralled was Napoleon by his boss’ testimony that at times he’d almost managed to forget altogether the reason for his having to sit in an U.N.C.L.E. courtroom. After fortuitously discovering the “Eyes Only” file and its contents, he thought he knew all there was to know about The Czechoslovakian Affair but, hearing the Old Man speak of it had provided an eye-opening experience.

The things he’d read in the old, tattered file with brittle, yellowing papers had been a collection of cold, hard facts, fascinating in what they documented, but lacking the ability to bring the events and people to life. Listening to Waverly’s candid recounting transformed the people into larger-than-life characters in a stage play. For a fleeting interlude Napoleon had merely been a member of the audience.

But this was no theater production where at play’s end the actors would remove make-up, costumes and go home. Alexander Waverly was Number One, Section One of U.N.C.L.E. New York and for the first time ever, Napoleon looked at his boss and saw him with different eyes. Oh, he was still the pragmatic, all-knowing, practically immortal man Napoleon saw through the filter of his mind’s eye, but now it was as though layers of veneer had been stripped off a valuable antique, revealing its raw, unvarnished state underneath.

Seeing the younger version of Waverly was like looking at a reflection of himself. Napoleon understood so much more fully now that once his boss had been a field agent, young and confident in his competence to accomplish any job and rise to any occasion asked of him. Napoleon knew exactly what that felt like - that optimistic self-confidence was an ingrained part of his own personality. And like himself, Waverly had learned the hard way that sometimes - just sometimes - life’s choices narrowed down to finding the courage to do what was necessary, according to one’s own moral compass, when one’s professional duty, protocol and training dictated precisely the opposite action.

Still, even with this revised vision of Alexander Waverly, Napoleon perceived the difference between his boss’ actions and his. Waverly, in deciding to save Albert Goering’s life over carrying out his assigned duty to the German scientist, had debated his action and counted the cost _before_ he’d acted. He’d had mentally weighed and measured the value of the life of a just man over his professional duty. Ultimately Waverly had been moved to preserve the one and forsake the other. He, on the other hand, had acted on pure instinct, without calculation when he’d forsaken his assignment to save Illya.

There was only one reason he’d done so. Love. He loved the enigmatic, slender blond with everything that was strong and decent in him. He had absolute confidence and surety of heart that if faced once more with similar circumstances, he’d do it again because without Illya, his life would become just one long series of missions wherein he cheated death until death one day received its satisfaction.

This introspection led Napoleon to reconsider something he’d been so ready to dismiss before: Perhaps his love for Illya Kuryakin _had_ irrevocably compromised him as a field agent. If so, could he do the right thing? Good God, what was the right thing? Walking away from U.N.C.L.E.? The mild throbbing that had begun in Napoleon’s temples before Waverly’s testimony and diminished during it, flared up again. Wincing, he shifted in the hard chair and forced himself to pay attention to what was happening on the witness stand.

Alexander Waverly had spoken without interruption until finally, he’d fallen silent, passing a wrinkled hand wearily through his hair. Napoleon guessed by the set of his boss’ stern expression that he thought himself quite through with the whole witness experience. Napoleon assumed too that that would be the end of his testimony and that he would return to the sanctuary of his office. After all, McKinney had made his point. He still preferred that McKinney had accomplished his goal other than by calling the Old Man to the stand, and he certainly did not believe that Waverly should be questioned further. There was no need, nor was it particularly smart, to humiliate Alexander Waverly by making him recount exactly what had transpired at the very end concerning Dieter Grunewald.

Unfortunately, Mr. McKinney clearly had other ideas. The meticulous attorney was like a dog on a bone as he pressed his next question.

“Mr. Waverly, you rescued Albert Goering, didn’t you?”

Waverly raised a bushy eyebrow. “I should think that would be obvious.”

McKinney, looking nonplussed, replied, “please... for the benefit of the board members.”

Waverly harrumphed and sat up straighter. “Yes.”

Napoleon felt his earlier sense of unease return with a vengeance. Truth be told, at the time when he’d first discovered just what the ultimate consequence of Waverly’s choice had been, he’d been shocked and frankly, more than a little amazed that Waverly’s career within the intelligence community had not only remained intact, but had served as the basis for his becoming one of the founding fathers of what was today, the most powerful and influential law enforcement agency in the world.

For so long he’d kept the fact that he’d stumbled across the mother of all secret files to himself. Not even Illya knew about it, much less its contents. It was bad enough that McKinney had forced Waverly to publicly recount the story of how he’d come to rescue Albert Goering from certain death, but now he was going for the _coup de grâce._ He was going to expose something highly sensitive, something that would make tongues within U.N.C.L.E. wag and quite possibly embarrass the powerful leader in front of the men and women he was charged to lead.

Napoleon was busy fighting a war within. His conscience was quietly asserting that he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the mirror the next day knowing he’d beaten a dereliction of duty charge with a self-serving action that would most likely diminish Alexander Waverly’s reputation within U.N.C.L.E..

On the other hand, his finely-honed survival instincts were reminding him that it was Waverly himself who had set the ball in motion - and kept his own counsel as to what purpose. Napoleon, who had been around the block and then some, knew that the Old Man never did anything that wasn’t purely calculated to produce a specific, desired result for the good of U.N.C.L.E..

“What happened to Dieter Grunewald?’’ McKinney asked in his precise, clipped way of speaking.

Napoleon looked from McKinney to Waverly with just a split second left to make a decision as to whether or not he should interrupt the questioning by raising an objection, or accept that McKinney’s strategy was the correct one and let it play out to the bitter end. McKinney had all but assured him that he would be on his own if he persisted on ignoring his attorney’s advice. Damn the man anyway! Napoleon hated having not being in the driver’s seat when it came things that concerned his own future.

Napoleon turned around in his chair to look back at the faces of the men and women sitting in the observation area, staring with rapt attention at the U.N.C.L.E. head. In that moment, Waverly spoke.

The die was cast. The play moved into its final act.

“The plan Sobota and I carried out to effect Mr. Goering’s emancipation from the Pilsen prison worked like a well-oiled machine.”

“And what happened then?” McKinney pressed.

“I never did meet up with Dieter Grunewald. Damnable laws of physics,” Waverly muttered, sounding to Napoleon quite put out that he could not bend the laws and make himself be in two places at the same time.

Waverly continued, “a day later I searched for him, hoping that he would still be at the rendezvous point, but...I found no sign that he’d made it there. I proceeded to go to Vlasim and when I arrived at the house where his wife and son were staying, I discovered that Grunewald had indeed started out as planned.” He fell silent and his eyes clouded over with the shadows of regretful memories.

“What happened to Dieter Grunewald, Mr. Waverly?”

Napoleon breathed in - and temporarily forgot to breathe out as Waverly moved one step closer to exposing the shame of his bungled assignment.

“He was captured by the Soviets on his way to the rendezvous point. The Russians secreted him deep within the Soviet Union and he was not heard from again until 1957.”

From behind him, Napoleon heard murmuring and the sound of tongues clucking in disapproval. If Waverly heard it, he did nothing to indicate it. The U.N.C.L.E. head was looking calmly back - not at McKinney, but at the board members.

The board members ignored the noise emanating from the observers. With impassive faces, they listened, but Napoleon wasn’t fooled. They were as bound up in the story and the storyteller as anyone else.

“1957...” McKinney falsely speculated. “And what exactly was he doing all that time?”

“The Soviets had pressed Grunewald into service for their nascent space program - an entirely logical move on their part considering the German possessed a brilliant, scientific mind.”

An audible rumble arose from the area behind Napoleon.

“We didn’t know it at the time, but ultimately, his knowledge directly contributed to the successful launch of Sputnik 1.” Waverly spoke matter-of-factly, but there was no mistaking the residual shards of old shame that still caused his leathery cheeks to flush faintly. Napoleon wanted to look away from the vision of this powerful, intelligent man being forced to reveal such embarrassing consequences of his mission failure, but like a spectator looking on as two trains were about to collide, he couldn’t.

Waverly’s choice had had impact far beyond himself, Goering and even Grunewald. Napoleon, like every person in the room remembered the resulting shock and steep rise in tensions between the west and the Soviet Union when the Soviets suddenly and successfully launched a satellite.   
The Russians had beaten the Americans to space and the resultant fear and posturing sparked a crisis between the two world powers that had persevered to this very day.

“Your superiors considered your mission totally bungled and you, derelict, isn’t that true, Mr. Waverly?” McKinney said making it sound more like a statement of fact, not a question.

“That, young man, would be an understatement.” Waverly didn’t flinch at such an admission, which Napoleon knew had to be a humbling, distasteful act. The Old Man certainly wasn’t known for suffering incompetence in other agents; the idea that his superiors had applied the same standard of measurement and found him wanting must have been intolerable.

McKinney observed Waverly with sharp eyes, eyes that held a great measure of respect . “And yet, when it comes to furthering the goals of world stability, not one of those men ever achieved your far-reaching influence that you have, and will have far into the future, have they?” he asked.

One silvery eyebrow quirked upward; a sign of peevish assent. Baring one’s dirty laundry in public was distasteful and so too was publicly staking personal claims to greatness. Waverly cleared his throat. “U.N.C.L.E. has achieved the goal of furthering world stability.”

“You _are_ U.N.C.L.E..” McKinney countered softly.

With that, McKinney faced the board members and announced that he had no further questions for his witness. The words barely registered with Napoleon - he being too preoccupied with the constant running analysis in his head of possible theories as to what Waverly’s testimony had actually achieved.

He wanted so much to turn his mind off to it, to simply be content to let things unfold as apparently Waverly wanted him to, but he just couldn’t do that. It was not in his nature to be a spectator to what he thought initially was only his life’s drama. It was Waverly who had dragged him here for this, and there was absolutely no doubt in Napoleon’s mind that Waverly, in appointing McKinney as his attorney, had orchestrated the direction of the cross-examination.

Waverly hadn’t enjoyed being on the stand, that much was clear to Napoleon, and only the Old Man knew just how distasteful it must have been having events from long-buried files come to light and examined in such a public way.

Waverly was cunning, calculating, not to be underestimated in the lengths that he would go to protect U.N.C.L.E.’s interests. Napoleon was convinced that the Inquest, thus far, had been but a stage, and he an actor who didn’t know his lines. On the other hand, he was sure that the party or parties for whom the play had been performed were not now present.

It begged the question for whom then was the Inquest orchestrated? And what was it exactly that Waverly had accomplished with his testimony?

There was little doubt in his mind that after Alexander Waverly’s testimony, the board members would find that the grounds were insufficient to formally charge him with dereliction of duty and failure to obey a command by a superior. There’d be no more questions hanging over his head like dark storm clouds concerning that particular aspect of his conduct in the affair and yet, as satisfying as the prospect left him feeling, every instinct told Napoleon that clearing him had only been a secondary goal of Waverly’s - if it had ever been one at all.

At the end of the day, Napoleon was no closer to uncovering the real agenda than he’d been at the start, and favorable outcome or not, he still had to face the far more problematic question concerning his role in the death of Dr. Phoenix. Napoleon forced his attention back to McKinney whose face was currently sporting a rather satisfied expression.

It did little to alleviate Napoleon’s frustration.

The board members had indicated that they had no questions of their own, and Yi Chun was inquiring as to whether or not McKinney had any more witnesses to call.

“No further witnesses,” McKinney replied. The attorney strolled back to Napoleon’s table, sat down, crossed his legs, and commenced inspecting nails almost as well-manicured as Napoleon’s own.

Yi Chun glanced over his procedural notes before solemnly intoning, “Let the record reflect that testimony on the issues of dereliction of duty and disobeying a superior has been heard and or received into evidence. The board members and counsel, having no further evidence or argument to present at this Inquest, will now adjourn for consideration before rendering a finding of fact, opinion and recommendation.”

McKinney stood up and motioned Napoleon to do the same.

With that, the board members gathered up their notes and briefcases and departed the room in silence.

The silence didn’t last long, as conversation in the spectator’s area spontaneously erupted. Some of Napoleon’s fellow Section Two agents came forward, surrounding him. A hand or two clapped him on the back and Napoleon smiled distractedly as snatches of sentiments reached his ears. Good luck Solo...I know you’ll beat this...way to go Solo...

He heard other sentiments too, sentiments of the thoughtless and jealous variety that made him want to punch somebody’s lights out. Unfortunately, he’d already decked a fellow agent today and he wasn’t going to lose control like that again.

Never figured the Old Man to have ever been such a screw-up...Waverly’s Golden Boy takes after him...I hope Solo was worth it...Napoleon continued to smile but he was showing teeth in a shark-like grin. He wouldn’t be forgetting who the snakes in Section Two were anytime soon.

Napoleon sat down again with a grace he didn’t feel. At the moment he wanted nothing more than for his fellow agents to leave him the hell alone at a time when there was nothing else left to do but wait.

Waiting. How long was he going to have to wait for the board members to return and pronounce judgment upon him for his decision to save Illya Kuryakin’s life that day?

The crowd continued to mill about his table, talking to and around him until suddenly, Napoleon was seized by a strong desire to get out of there. The room was becoming too small, the crowd around him too cloying. Abruptly Napoleon turned and walked out of the room, not even pausing to acknowledge McKinney’s strong urgings to return to the table.

He found himself walking down the corridor with no particular destination in mind until he realized that he was instinctively headed towards his office - a place that at times seemed like a second home to him.

It was late in the afternoon - too early for most to have gone home for the day - but thankfully, Napoleon encountered few other employees, and those he did see seemed to sense that he was not in a social mood and stayed away.

When he arrived at his office, instead of relaxing in the comfort of familiar surroundings, he felt strangely out of place. This was his desk where he worked, his chair where he sat, his typewriter that Illya used more than he ever did because the Russian typed reports much faster and more succinctly then he. He moved like a stranger amongst the furnishings, ghosting his hand along the top of the chair, stopping to pick up and peruse a folder on his desk without really seeing the contents.

He put down the folder and his gaze and his hand simultaneously landed on the small, framed photograph of himself and Illya taken by Terry Cook, an innocent caught up in the Gurnius Affair.. The intrepid photographer had snapped the picture at the conclusion of the affair that had sorely taxed his friendship with Illya, and in the process of taking the picture she’d captured an unguarded moment between the two.

The girl had no idea what had passed between them in that single look. Understanding. Friendship. A promise that there was no hurt or wrong inflicted that could not be forgiven. Only Illya knew how much that photograph meant to him and what it symbolized. Napoleon took reflective comfort in the photograph until he heard an imaginary voice, lightly accented in Russian, tinged with a bit of sarcasm say, Waxing maudlin doesn’t suit you, Napoleon.

“True,” he said aloud and his lips curved into a self-deprecating smile as he pulled out the desk chair, sat down and prepared to accomplish some work.

It seemed as though he’d only just settled into the contents of the top file when the high-pitched warbling beep of his communicator alerted him. He took out the pen-shaped device and spoke into it. “Solo here.”

“This is Alistair.” The attorney’s clipped words came through. “Napoleon, you need to return at once. The board members are back and they wish to render their findings.”

“I’m on my way. Solo out.” Putting away his communicator, he got up and started walking back to the room at a brisk pace.

When he arrived, he was surprised to see very few of his colleagues present to hear the findings. “So soon?” he whispered as he slipped into his seat at the table next to McKinney. He was uncertain whether or not he should take the quick return as a good sign.

McKinney looked at him sharply. “It’s been over two and a half hours. Fifteen minutes was more than sufficient time for them to dispense with this matter in your favor.” The attorney sounded miffed as though the proficiency of his litigation skills had been personally insulted.

Napoleon was shocked. He had no idea so much time had passed as he’d worked. But it hardly mattered now. Yi Chun was already verbally announcing the time for the record.

“Please stand, Mr. Solo.”

McKinney beside him, Solo rose to his feet with feigned casualness. His tight jaw was the only tell that gave away the tenseness he was really feeling. He was one second away from either one half of his nightmare being over, or continuing on to something much more unpleasant and lasting in consequence. His pride reared its head making his posture stiff while his ego got busy reminding him again of just how humiliating it felt to be the subject of an Inquest.

He tried to savor the possible last few moments of a spotless, enviable career - and nearly choked on the bitter taste instead.

“This board, after inquiring into all the facts and circumstances connected  
with the incident, which occasioned this Inquest and having considered the  
evidence, finds as follows: There is insufficient evidence to support either a charge of dereliction of duty, or failure to obey a superior officer. The board’s recommendation to the convening authority, Number One, Section One of U.N.C.L.E. New York is that the matter be considered closed and not subject to reopening.”

Napoleon’s eyes closed in relief and when he opened them next, the famous Solo smile lit up his face. Thank you, he mouthed to the board members.   
Yi Chun did nothing to acknowledge the sentiment, but Witherspoon and Rolf both nodded their heads.

McKinney shook Napoleon’s hand. The stiff, formal gesture was about as jocular a demonstration as the proper man would ever allow.

“I suppose I’m in your debt, Alistair.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Napoleon. This was a cakewalk compared to the next issue.”

Napoleon’s mood turned dark. “Right now I really don’t care. I did the right thing when I left that ball. The board members thought so and now everyone else knows it too - including Mr. Waverly.”

“Yes, I know, but now we need to talk about tomorrow - ”

“Later,” Solo interrupted. He was already turning to leave.

“Where are you going?” McKinney demanded, sounding exasperated.

“To see Illya.” With that, Napoleon Solo, CEA U.N.C.L.E. New York, left the room, leaving a sputtering McKinney behind.

 


	20. Chapter 20

*******

Napoleon gently opened the door to Illya’s room and stepped inside, but he stopped himself from going farther in when he saw that the Russian’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping. He noted the apparently untouched tray of food on the night stand. Disappointed, but not wanting to disturb his partner’s rest, he prepared to back out of the room.

“Leaving so soon?”

Napoleon was brought up short when Illya’s eyes opened and he heard him speak. He flashed a grin and came forward, plopping himself down in the comfortable leather reclining chair that was situated bedside. “Are you going to eat that? I’m starving,” Napoleon pointed in the direction of the neglected tray.

Illya scrutinized him with eyes that did not look entirely pain-free. “By all means. But there is a price.”

Napoleon got up and snagged the food tray. Then he settled back down in the chair. “Name it,” he said around a bite of cold chicken and mashed potatoes.

“Tell Nurse Sawyer that I ate it.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Nurse Sawyer? Hatchet-face Sawyer? Where is the lovely Lavina Richardson?”

“Home. Where I should be.”

Napoleon thought that the Russian’s pale face and general un-well appearance did nothing to advance his argument.

“By the looks of you, you are where you need to be.” Solo observed with little tact.

“Do we have a deal?” Illya relentlessly kept the conversation on track.

Napoleon popped another forkful of food into his mouth. “Yes, we have a deal. Now, don’t you have any news from the doctor?”

“Of course. And do you not have news for me as well?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“The subject is you. What do you think I’ve been doing all afternoon while you’ve been down there? Enjoying a tea party?” Illya sounded downright testy now, tired of the exchange.

 _It’s only been one afternoon and he’s already been bored out of his mind - and beating himself up for not being at the Inquest. A bit of good news was in order._ “I’ve been cleared on any allegation of dereliction of duty and failure to obey a superior officer.” He said the words lightly enough for any other listener, but this was Illya. His partner could read him like a book. Evidently the page the Russian was reading spoke more about Napoleon’s true jumbled-up feelings of relief and residual anger because Illya sat up straight and bade Napoleon to come close to him. Curious, Napoleon obliged putting down the tray down and standing up.

Illya took hold of the end of his tie and gently pulled him down until he was leaning over, his face close to Illya’s, looking right into those eyes as blue as a Caribbean ocean. “Evidently they agreed with you - my life has some value and thus is worth saving,” Illya said softly. “And _they_ are not even in love with me.” Illya’s voice had taken on a sultry tone and the heat emanating from him wasn‘t entirely attributable to a fever.

Napoleon was mesmerized by those eyes, which rendered him temporarily speechless. His close proximity to Illya had an instantaneous effect on his anatomy as the blood in his veins raced downwards and the front of his pants began to tent. He wanted so much to kiss the lips that were so tantalizingly close. “No,” he answered definitively. “No, they aren’t, but I _am_.” His voice sounded husky to his ears.

But he gently pushed himself away and sat down, re-arranging the front of his suit jacket.

“What’s the matter, Napoleon?” Illya was looking at him with concern.

“Ah...nothing. It’s been a very long day.”

Illya chose to ignore the half-truth. Instead, he inquired about the particulars of the Inquest.

“I’d be glad to tell you about Waverly’ s testimony, but it’s a bit of a long, strange tale.”

“Luckily, I have no pressing appointments. Do tell,” Illya replied as he lay back down against the pillows again.

Thus Napoleon resumed his consumption of Illya’s meal and in between bites, he gave a highly detailed recitation of Waverly’s testimony - including that he had discovered the basic facts about the Czechoslovakian incident quite some time ago. He watched with a fair share of amusement as the normally unflappable Russian took on a more and more, incredulous expression as he explained in great detail how, as a field operative, Waverly had forsaken his assignment to save the life of the brother of one of the most notorious Nazi leaders and in doing so, had permitted a valuable German scientist to fall into Soviet hands, thus advancing their space program.

He finished the tale and fell silent.

“You _knew_ this, and never told me? You...you blockhead!” Illya sputtered.

Napoleon sympathized. “It wasn’t my tale to tell.”

“But he...Albert Goering? _Our_ Waverly did that?” Surprise, disbelief and a good measure of respect warred for place in Illya’s eyes.

“He did. In fact, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with Mr. McKinney using that against Mr. Waverly on the stand.”

“No one can make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

“Yes, yes I know that. But...” Napoleon fell silent, slouching in the leather recliner and propping his chin on his hand.

Illya frowned. “What is that sly fox up to? Why would he put you through that in the first place if he knew he’d end up having to air his dirty laundry in public just to ensure the Inquest would clear you? Waverly can be ruthless, to be sure, but dragging you through an Inquest seems extreme - even for him.”

Napoleon snapped his fingers and sat up straight. “He’s laying a trap. I think he was heading off some kind of very serious threat against me and somehow his testimony was designed to flush out that threat.”

Illya closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, that’s not right.”

Napoleon wearily slouched back again. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why isn’t that right?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious, Napoleon?” Illya’s tone sounded remarkably like one of Napoleon’s old school masters having to suffer the presence of the ignorant.

“Hmmm. Apparently only to you.” Napoleon checked his ego at the door and awaited Illya’s theory. This was the way it was between them. Illya was professionally subordinate to him, but he’d learned quickly early on in their partnership that he could rely on the Russian’s keen intellect and heightened instincts to see things he did not. He’d learned to appreciate that different perspective for the many times it had provided a timely solution - or saved his life.

“You are the pawn in this drama, therefore you cannot also be the prey.  It is _Mr. Waverl_ y who is the target, not you my friend.”

Napoleon silently contemplated Illya’s words.  He stood up and paced, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. “Someone convinced Mr. Waverly that they could hurt him by taking me out as next-in-line to become Number One, Section One. Waverly’s response was to hold an Inquest.”

“Which could have and still can go against you, Napoleon,” Illya muttered.

Napoleon stopped his pacing. “That’s why he appointed McKinney as my counsel. He wanted the best: someone who was thorough and would undercover exactly what the Old Man wanted him to uncover. Someone who would use everything in their arsenal to win, even if it meant publicly exposing something their boss would prefer to keep buried.”

I don’t suppose you have any ideas about who’s doing the threatening?”

“Not a clue. This doesn’t smell like THRUSH,” Illya said quietly. His eyes were starting to droop and he looked tired.

Napoleon feigned both a yawn and checking the time on his wristwatch. “Whoa, look at the time! Listen, I have to meet McKinney tonight to talk about tomorrow.”

“Give him my regards.” The Russian’s eyes closed.

“I will. Get some sleep now.” He patted his partner’s good leg before walking to the door. Before going through he turned around, “And Illya?”

Illya looked tiredly at him. “What?”

“No more deals with your food.” He made his escape before Illya could reply.

  
*******

In the still, quietness of his dimly-lit penthouse apartment, Napoleon Solo wearily poured himself a stiff drink from the brandy decanter. _God knows I’ve earned it._ The day had been long, made longer by McKinney’s insistence on going over the next day’s preparation long after the sun had set and the lights of Manhattan had come out to decorate the New York City skyline.

McKinney had eventually taken his leave, declining Napoleon’s invitation to share in the fellowship of some liquid comfort. The lawyer’s response to his offer had been to rake his sharp grey eyes over him in an appraisal that missed nothing. McKinney had then gotten up from his chair and not so subtly urged him to get some sleep before closing his briefcase with an efficient snap and heading towards the door.

Strangely enough, Napoleon felt sorry to see him go.

McKinney was right though - he should go to bed and try to get some much- needed sleep. Ironically, Napoleon had no doubt that McKinney wasn’t about to heed his own advice, but would head back to his office to work, despite the lateness of the hour. He’d learned the man was apparently cut from the same cloth as Waverly: they both seemed to be in their offices at all hours of the day and night.

Instead of moving though, Solo stood rooted to the spot, staring at the liquid in the glass he held.

Today’s victory had been an ugly one, won without any grace and finesse of which to boast. At the end of the day, he had no idea whether or not the relationship that had been cultivated between himself and Alexander Waverly would ever be as easy and comfortable as the years had forged it. Not quite fatherly, yet not purely professional either - he’d become accustomed to the carefully balanced dynamics. In whatever capacity he continued on with U.N.C.L.E., he would deeply regret any erosion in the quality of that relationship. Nonetheless - he’d take today’s victory and run with it.

Raising his glass in a silent salute to the absent lawyer, he tossed back the drink, savoring the smooth, warm burn as the alcohol slid down his throat and settled in his stomach. No half-frozen Stolichnaya for him. That particular bottle was still in the freezer, held in reserve for one Illya Kuryakin.

The singular thought that had consoled him in the past - that for one more time he’d go to bed and wake up knowing he was still CEA, and that his record remained unblemished - failed to deliver any consolation now. His other concern was far too pressing. An allegation of murder hanging over his head was like the sword of Damocles on a steadily fraying rope.

Napoleon clutched his empty glass, reluctant to do anything more than pour another ration. He remembered a time not so long ago he would have been looking forward to the next weekend evening out with some sophisticated, stunningly beautiful female. He would have indulged in some wining and dining, perhaps a little dancing at the Silhouette Club, followed by some much-anticipated recreational, stress-relieving sex.

How things had changed. The idea of pursuit and conquest of the female variety no longer had the power to quicken his libido or his soul.

But Illya did.

But the Russian wasn’t here, wasn’t going to be until he finished the course of medical treatment. Illya believed that he had done nothing wrong, and despite what the evidence indicated, Napoleon believed Illya. He had no choice then but to swallow whatever stubborn lingering uncertainty remained regarding what had transpired with Dr. Phoenix. He’d fight for his career - and win, just as he’d done today.

As for Illya, there was no question in his mind that the medications would kick in and halt the infection in its tracks. He refused to contemplate any other possibility. Then, with their troubles behind them, the two would take up where they’d left off before their lives had taken these unpleasant detours.

Still, he didn’t much care for the thought of getting into that big bed knowing that Illya, with his compact, lithe body, over-long, flaxen hair and face with the enigmatic smile that promised everything and nothing, wouldn’t be in it. Napoleon sighed ruefully. Pining over the situation like some besotted youth wouldn’t get his record cleared or Illya well.

He set the glass down and began the ritual of preparing for bed. With practiced efficiency, he reset the security alarms. Then he pulled the living room drapes closed before heading to the bathroom for a quick wash.

A short time later he climbed into his comfortable bed, sighing in hedonistic bliss as he lay upon the silk sheets and pulled the satin covers over his freshly-washed, pajama-clad body. He couldn’t believe how tired and stiff he felt just from having sat all day in a courtroom.

He yearned for the oblivion of sleep after the long and draining day, yet sleep tarried, leaving him to toss and turn as his restless mind replayed the day’s dramatic events over and over. He couldn’t stop thinking about Agent Beam’s ugly words or how his hostile testimony along with Agent Archer’s written testimony had stung and blindsided him with its unanticipated betrayal. Waverly and the ghosts from the past the older man had resurrected took their turn vying for his attention too. And then there was the memory that even now, made his heart wrench and his fist clench involuntarily: Illya being shoved back by Beams. Falling. His stoic, tough-as- nails partner lying on the ground, twisting in pain, unable to respond to his attempts at comfort.

Napoleon turned on his side and his eyes tracked the sliver of moonlight that shone through the window’s half-open curtain, cutting an illuminated path next to him on the bed. As if on its own accord, his arm reached out seeking, but finding only an empty space that seemed as vast as a barren desert.

He ceased to think about the Inquest and instead, thought of Illya in different circumstances, imagining the day when the Russian, whole and well, would be released from the infirmary. They would leave Manhattan and go somewhere secluded. They would both need a timeout from danger and a place away from hostile eyes and attitudes. They’d care for each other in that haven and he would delight in showing the Russian again and again the more sensual and varied ways one man could love another.

Illya had been such a short time in his home, in his bed before circumstances had forced him out of it - but not from his heart, never from that secure harbor despite the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.

He was keenly feeling was the absence of his partner’s physical presence. There should have been nothing disquieting about that. Certainly there had been times in their partnership when partner one or the other had been dispatched on separate missions. He’d missed Illya when he wasn’t there to bounce ideas off of, trade barbs, or share a glass of vodka. But what he was feeling now was a different, disconcerting ball of wax.

The admission left him feeling vulnerable, but in the process, another truth revealed itself: It was loneliness he feared, not being alone. Illya wasn’t with him physically, but the love he held in his heart for his most dangerous, Russian wolf was a force that had its own breath and life. Within lay the power to vanquish the loneliness rooted in the secret fear he’d long held of ultimately dying alone, devoid of any lasting relationships. That fear had taunted him, even as a succession of blonds, brunettes, or raven-haired women more beautiful than the last, circulated in and out of his bed.

Napoleon wondered if Illya had known that truth about him, all the while when he’d wasted time by steadfastly rejecting the love the Russian had offered without words. His breathing deepened and his eyes blinked and then closed as sleep drew tantalizingly nearer. His hand continued to absently caress the soft empty space next to him.

Just before the blackness of sleep embraced him, a single liberating thought drifted across his dwindling consciousness: _When it came down to the fear of loneliness versus his love for Illya, his heart had no room for both._

Loneliness didn’t stand a chance.

Napoleon Solo fell asleep, oblivious to the small smile gracing his features more illuminating than the sliver of moonlight streaming through the window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to any new readers. Many thanks to those who commented/kudo'd.
> 
> http://romansartfanfic.com


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Illya portrait is many years old. I believe at the time I created it, it was only the second attempt at doing a pen-and-ink drawing I had ever done. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback always appreciated.
> 
> http://romanseartfanfic.com

 

 

 

At 12:00 am, the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary was a quiet, dimly-lit place. Nurse Betty Sawyer liked working her twelve-hour shift when it overlapped into the night and early morning hours. The infirmary didn’t always have patients who required hospitalization, but when there were, most slept when they were supposed to and dutifully followed doctor’s orders by taking their medication. The added bonus from her perspective was that there was minimal staff on duty requiring her stringent oversight. God knows the younger generation of nurses needed it. Heaven only knew where they were receiving their training these days.

She’d been a nurse for over twenty-five years and preferred to go about her duties during times when minimal social interaction was necessary. She hadn’t the temperament (some would say tact) to debate with the new breed of younger nurses and their new-fangled ways that seemed more like cutting corners to her. She was even less inclined to indulge difficult patients who didn’t do exactly as they were told.

Patients like Mr. Kuryakin for example.

She was well-acquainted with Mr. Kuryakin’s distrust of medical personnel which she mistook for arrogance, and his penchant for discharging himself before medically advisable. He was a terrible patient. Willful and difficult to manage.

Much earlier in her shift she’d observed an orderly taking the mostly eaten dinner tray out of his room, but she knew darn well he hadn’t eaten the food. She couldn’t prove it, she didn’t know how she knew it, but she had a sixth sense about those things and she took personal offense that the Russkie was somehow getting away with being contrary.

Dr. Greenberg had also included orders that Mr. Kuryakin be given a sedative if she observed him having difficulty falling asleep. One hour earlier she’d made her rounds in the semi-darkened hallway accompanied heralded by the squeaking sound of her rubber-soled shoes. The clinic’s two other patients were fast asleep, but when she’d come to Kuryakin’s room, she’d observed him moving restlessly, clearly not sleeping.

She inspected the IV lines and clucked with disproval when one appeared to need adjustment. She checked his vitals and after taking his temperature and noting the slight increase, she’d made to inject the sedative into his arm but he’d had the nerve to vehemently refuse it.

Well, she wouldn’t stand for it this time. It was midnight and Kuryakin still wasn’t asleep. No patient on her watch and as ill as this one was, was going make her appear as though she couldn’t do her job. Betty smoothed down her severely pulled-back, thinning gray hair she always wore in a tight bun like a badge of spinster-hood, before filling the syringe with the correct dosage of sedative. If Mr. Kuryakin was unable to get his required rest without a sedative, then by all the saints, she’d see to it that he would with one.

  
*******

While Napoleon Solo slept like a baby in the comfort of his bed, Illya lay awake in his, feeling achy and restless as his temperature gradually increased.

He hated the invasive tubes in his body. The one in his arm that ran up through his neck pulled and irritated his flesh. The one in his hand made the appendage ache. He despised the catheter in his penis that kept him tethered to the bed with no way of escape. The medications seemed to loosen his control over his emotions, filling him with uncharacteristic anxiety that made him want to rip out the medical devices violating him. It took every ounce of self-discipline to keep from doing so.

Adding to his overall unease was the unexpected and highly unwelcome resurgence of memories of Dr. Phoenix and what the mad scientist had done to him. He could only attribute that to this being the eve in which Napoleon would answer the Inquest regarding his role in the man’s death.

He realized he needed rest and he knew sleep would be long in coming without the sedative Dr. Greenberg had prescribed, but he instinctively knew that any drug-induced sleep would bring Dr. Phoenix to life again in living color. So he’d tossed and turned until tired and achy, he’d turned out the light over his bed and lain there imaging a view of the night sky denied him in the windowless infirmary. He longed to see the moon and stars above the lights of Manhattan and found it vaguely comforting imagining that Napoleon had enjoyed them from his penthouse view.

He’d been on the verge of slipping into a light doze that offered an escape from the pain the drugs didn’t completely dull, but Nurse Sawyer interrupted him when he’d suddenly felt a thermometer being jammed under his tongue and cold hands manipulating the lines running up his hand and arm.

He had tried to hide his annoyance at being snatched back from the verge of sleep but then he saw the syringe coming at him and instinctively pulled away. “What are you doing?” he’d demanded. His voice had sounded more peevish than he’d intended.

“Just relax, Mr. Kuryakin,” Nurse Sawyer had abruptly replied, “this is the sedative that Dr. Greenberg prescribed.”

“No. I don’t want it.” He’d firmly refused, but the authoritarian nurse had insisted, with a great deal of impatience, that he take it arguing that, among other things, he was foolish for wasting prescribed medication.

“Take it yourself and then maybe we can all get some sleep,” he’d snapped, no longer trying to hide his annoyance.

Nurse Sawyer had taken her supplies and her sour face and left muttering under her breath about ungrateful, stubborn patients.

That had been nearly an hour ago.

The hands on the clock inched around slowly and Illya bore witness to each infinitesimal advance. Somewhere between one breath and the next, Illya’s eyes closed and he all but fell into a light doze though his body still moved with occasional restlessness.

He was in that twilight place between sleep and wakefulness when his internal alarm went off and he was thrust into an awareness of someone standing over him. Unknown to him, Nurse Sawyer had returned and without warning, injected his IV with the sedative. Half-startled, he automatically made to yank the IV line out and his befuddled mind had been slow to comprehend the orders barked at him to leave it alone.

He felt a hand gripping his arm tightly and he looked up. Between the fever and drug effects, the face that stared down at him was not that of a cantankerous U.N.C.L.E. nurse, but of the malevolent Dr. Phoenix. Fear seized him and he snatched his arm away, prepared to destroy the man who had buried him alive.

It was only the nurse’s startled cry that sharpened his senses and made him refrain from launching an attack.

Nurse Sawyer never knew how close she’d come to permanent retirement.

His wild-eyed gaze bore straight through Nurse Sawyer before he recognized who and what she was. He watched the woman’s sour expression flee in the face of what must have been his transformation from mere patient to trained, deadly agent.

Clearly flustered, Nurse Sawyer chastised him. “Stop this fussing right now. All of this is unnecessary,” she said, her voice harsh and abrupt.

Anger quickly replaced the fear and suddenly, Illya was yelling at her his words coming out in a stream of biting, sarcastic Russian before he stopped himself mid-stream and switched to English. If she had only left him alone he would have already been asleep.

“Good night, Mr. Kuryakin,” Nurse Sawyer responded tightly. She spun on her heels and walked out.

His anger waned as the sedative began to do its work. It coursed through his system, making him feel light-headed even as his eye-lids grew heavy. He knew what was coming and he dreaded it. The sedative would drag him down and he’d be entrapped in a nightmare from which he’d be unable to easily awaken. Dr. Phoenix’s suffocating dark pit with dirt raining down upon his injured, hurting body, and possibly every encounter he’d had with THRUSH torturers awaited him.

Illya’s eyes closed and he trembled.

  
*******

Thirty Five minutes later Nurse Sawyer was at the nurses’ station correcting some perceived deficiency with the junior nurse on duty with her, when suddenly an almost inhuman wail, like that of a tormented animal, rent asunder the calm quietness of the dimly-lit infirmary. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she froze in place while her colleague’s eyes went wide with horror as the anguished sound echoed eerily in the hallway.

Sawyer had no need to wonder from whence the sound had come.  
She broke from her paralysis and began to run, dragging the younger nurse with her.

  
*******

**Washington DC**

The jarring ringing of the telephone on Jerry Beam’s nightstand propelled him out of a sound sleep and into a bleary view of his bedroom at 5:00am. Beams cursed and groped in the darkness for the telephone receiver. Finally locating it, he fumbled with positioning it before properly settling it by his ear and mouth.

 _“Eugen..”_ the familiar voice of Gunther Vogel, his THRUSH Central handler spoke.

Beams came fully awake. “This is not a secure line,” he cautioned at the use of his real name.

 _“It has been taken care of it,_ ” Vogel, speaking in accented Russian, confidently assured. _“Why have you not reported in?”_

Beams answered him in kind, his Russian tainted with the same accent as Vogel’s. “I’ve already reported that I successfully replaced Dr. Phoenix’ tooth. No one will know what really killed him. As I said, it was like taking candy from a baby.’’

_“Your competence in carrying out your prior task has been duly noted, but it appears that your recent judgment has been...questionable.”_

Beams sat up straighter. The censure was mild, the threat unspoken. Unease warred with annoyance. Had he not practically gift-wrapped and handed THRUSH the opportunity and means to deal a lasting, painful blow to the U.N.C.L.E. organization as agreed?

This would not do. THRUSH’s animal he may be, but it was still a marriage of convenience, entered into by the convergence of mutual goals. He was no longer the lonely fatherless youth, trapped in a repressive country not his own. True enough, he owed his liberation from the Soviet Union to THRUSH, and in doing so, U.N.C.L.E.’s organizational nemesis had gained a weapon whose need to lay waste to bring down did not act merely to execute his orders against U.N.C.L.E. out of greed, power or shared ideological perspective.

His motive was one deeply personal. As a young boy, the kindling of revenge had merely smoldered - impotent for years, due to the helplessness his tender age and powerlessness as a defacto political prisoner. The boy who was now a THRUSH man had watched in despair, his father’s mental and physical decline. The brilliant mind had become blunted. The nail that would not lie flat was pounded down into place by the hammer and sickle. First, his mother died. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman with the gay spirit had grown weary from hardship and life as a stranger in a strange land. The mother he knew and loved had smiled and laughed no more, when the earth from whence she’d come had taken back its gift.

His father lived years more, yet he lived as though an orphan, tip-toeing around the half-made shadow that haunted what passed for his home. When he’d reached seventeen, his father finally died, bitter and angry, with the name of the man who was responsible for his misery on his lips.

“Eugen,” his father would often say to him in their native German, never in Russian, the hated language of the Masters. “Never forget the name of the man who betrayed us. You must escape this place. Find him. Kill him and leave his carcass in the street to rot like a diseased dog.”

He had remembered that man’s name. He had only to hear it once from his father’s mouth to recall it forever: Felix Anderson.

That name had been burned into his very soul, bringing forth flames from the smoldering heat in his heart, until the need for revenge ignited into a raging conflagration for the lost life he, by all rights, should to have led. Even then it had never been the rage of a naive boy denied his right to baseball, drive-ins and Chevys. It was a man’s boiling rage at having been abandoned to a life of forced gratitude for the crumbs to eat and too little coal to heat the home provided by their ‘new country’. It was the virtual enslavement of his father and the way the Soviets had chewed him up and spit him out with a broken mind when he should have been respected, even revered, for his keen intellect and scientific achievements. It was the daily struggle to subjugate his German language and culture just to survive in a hostile environment that made him the target of every neighborhood bully’s aggression. Russian memories ran deep and nothing was every forgotten.

After his father had died, it was as though he had never existed. Records were purged, his home razed to the ground. Friendless, without kin, he had been shown ‘mercy’ by the Soviets by conscription into the military, where fortuitously, the keen intellect he’d inherited from his father was put to good use in the intelligence field.

In hindsight it had been the stroke of luck that had landed him in the Soviet military, thus placing him on the path of achieving his ambition the day he was approached by THRUSH.

 _“Your orders were to eliminate physical evidence and provide convincing testimony at Solo’s Inquest.”_   Vogel’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand.

Beams stiffened. “Speak plainly.”

“Very well.” Vogel switched to German before he answered saying,  
“You altered Agent Archer’s report which became the basis for his written testimony.”

Beams breathed a silent sigh of relief. _Was that all? “_ Agent Archer foolishly entrusted it to me when he was sent on assignment. Why should I have looked a gift horse in the mouth and allowed it to stand in contradiction to the testimony I would give?”

 _“Dummkopf_. _Do you suppose Agent Archer will never return and discover what was submitted? Your treachery will be immediately discovered.”_

Beams’ smile was grim “Not if he should have an unfortunate accident before returning.  That should be easy enough for you to put a team on that.”

There was silence . “What are Archer’s whereabouts?”

“Ibiza. Scuttlebutt says he’s returning in two days.”

“You have exactly one day to devise your plan on how best to handle Archer.”

“That isn’t much time. I don’t even know if the rumor is correct,” Beams’ complained, instantly regretting his easy assurances.

_“Surely it is, as you say, a matter ‘easy enough. That is, easy enough for the son of Dieter Grunewald.”_

Beams heard a resounding ‘click’. The phone disconnected, terminating the call.

Beams sighed. He owed much to THRUSH, his successful infiltration into U.N.C.L.E., the resources seemingly without limitation. Most of all, he owed THRUSH for the gift of knowledge. They’d given him the one nugget of information he’d never been able to uncover on his own. Indeed, he‘d not known he that he should have been looking for the true identity of Felix Anderson: Alexander Waverly, United Network Command for Law and Enforcement Continental Chief, Number One, Section One of U.N.C.L.E. New York.

*******

At 7:30 am, Agent Beams sauntered into the commissary, his step made especially spry in his present attitude of smug superiority. He grinned winsomely at the pretty female working the food line, secretly loving the way he could play her and get free meals whenever she worked the cash register. “Joyce, you look very fetching this morning. Is that a new hairdo you’re wearing?”

The plain girl blushed, and Beams noted the pleased expression on her face.

“It is! That’s mighty nice of you to notice,” she breathed.

He continued to flirt with her, shamelessly stringing the hopeful girl along for his amusement. Just one of these days he was going make her day and ask her out. She may be a plain Jane, but she had a body that could make any red-blooded man sit up and take notice. Afterwards, when he’d had all the sex he could get for the evening, he’d put her in her place and show her the door. He could only imagine the ensuing tearful scene, but he didn’t care. Surely she wouldn’t seriously think herself worthy of a man like him anyway.

He’d already dismissed the girl from his mind as he moved down the line, picking up his usual breakfast favorites of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. What he wanted was information, information on Napoleon Solo’s Inquest. If he could have, he would have planted a listening-device, so eager was he to hear of what could only have been the first unfavorable verdict.

Tray in hand, he looked around for a table occupied with familiar faces.  
There by the window was one with an open seat, and better still, it was populated by some of the best, most well-informed organizational gossipers.  
He’d be surprised, indeed, if there were no buzz this morning about how the Inquest for the great Napoleon Solo was progressing. Even in Washington DC, Napoleon Solo was well-known, and for some reason he couldn’t fathom, well-liked.

Beams hoped the DC grape vine was working overtime, courtesy of a few former U.N.C.L.E. New York employees who had transferred down to the DC headquarters. In fact, he was counting on it.

As luck would have it, two of the former New York Headquarters employees, Barbara Schmidt and Susan Henson were seated at the table along with two male Section Two agents, Brian Andrews and Nick Steiner. Beams’ lips curved into an oily smile. The two women still kept up with the NY Headquarters gossip and even had, on more than one occasion, fueled the flames of idle speculation concerning the nature of the unusually close relationship of Solo and Kuryakin.

“Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for a response, but set his tray down and took a seat.

He was rewarded with a friendly nod all around and so he commenced a casual conversation on general topics, only gradually narrowing his focus in order to elicit the information he wanted.

“You know it’s rather dull around this office considering that we are right in the nation’s capital.”

“Dull isn’t such a bad thing,” Brian Andrews chimed in. The freckled-face agent was young and fairly new to Section Two. He’d been there long enough to know that Beams was considered a rising star. He hoped to work a mission with him someday.

“It’s different, that’s for sure,” Barbara remarked. She looked coyly at Beams from beneath eyelids weighted with long, false eyelashes affixed.  
“Why, it was always lively at the New York Headquarters, especially with Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin there. It seemed like there was never a dull moment. Susan hon, do you remember the time when -

“I’m sure they could use a little peace and quiet up there right about now.” Beams smoothly interjected.

“You’re not kidding. I heard you nearly went fisticuffs with Mr. Solo after you had to testify about seeing him and Mr. Kuryakin...well -”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Beams interrupted again. “Solo was angry that I had to testify about what happened during the Masked Ball Affair. Later in the hallway he thought I pushed Kuryakin down. He went ballistic, just like he did when he murdered in cold blood that unarmed old scientist.”

“No!” The women exclaimed as one.

“How’s that for excitement?” Beams prompted.

Barbara and Susan exchanged looks. “Pretty exciting, but I think you missed out on what had to be one of U.N.C.L.E. NY’s strangest days ever.” Barbara winked conspiratorially.

“Oh?” Beams took a sip of his coffee and prepared to savor the news of Solo’s downfall.

“Well, I still can’t believe that Mr. Waverly called for an Inquest on Mr. Solo. He’s U.N.C.L.E.’s best agent and everyone knows he’s got a lock on Waverly’s chair. Thank goodness the board found in his favor.”

Coffee spewed from Beam’s mouth. “Damn that’s hot.” He recovered quickly enough on the outside, but nothing could cover his inner surprised disappointment. What they said was true: Solo was really just like a cat with nine lives.

_Damn!_

 

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

*******

At 4:30 in the morning, while night still colored the sky over Manhattan, the halls of U.N.C.L.E. HQ were as brightly lit as they were in daylight hours. The only difference being they were quieter and devoid of the characteristic energy generally attributed to the comings and goings of U.N.C.L.E.’s dedicated employees, the vast majority of whom worked during the day. Even so, it was said only half-jokingly that U.N.C.L.E. HQ - just like its top man, never slept.

Alexander Waverly’s appearance at that early hour reinforced the myth as U.N.C.L.E. security registered the Old Man’s presence in his office via remote sensor. As far as Waverly was concerned, indeed it was only a myth but barely so, for despite the fact that he had indeed gone home to sleep, his pre-dawn presence at headquarters felt more like one long, continuous day after having endured the rigors of testifying.

Reliving the past had taken more out of him than he’d cared to admit, yet at day’s end he’d very much wanted to debrief Yi Chun, the senior board member in order to learn what had transpired both before and after his own testimony. Unfortunately, he’d been constrained from doing so by procedural rules that strictly prohibited the Convening Authority from holding ex parte communications with board members concerning ongoing, non-administrative Inquest matters until the proceedings had been concluded in their entirety. The rules however, did permit him as the Convening Authority to review daily transcripts.

Thus he’d requested that a transcript of the day’s proceedings be prepared and delivered to his home via courier. Then he’d gone home relatively early to dine with his beloved wife, Alice, but not before having first handed a prioritized list of tasks to his personal assistant, Lisa Rogers, and reviewing Dr. Greenberg’s report concerning the status of one hospitalized Illya Kuryakin.

Once home, he’d been greeted by a delighted Alice, who began setting out a dinner of baked Cornish hens in wine sauce while she prattled on about fabric for new drapes. Afterwards, when the small birds had been reduced to bony carcasses, Alice had insisted her husband help her look through blocks of designer fabric swatches in her quest to find the perfect choice.

Though he detested such tedious chores, he‘d obliged her, for he dearly loved his bride and could refuse her nothing. Alice chatted gaily, not seeming to mind that her husband seemed preoccupied.

Waverly’s mind had indeed been elsewhere, consumed with thoughts concerning the insidious threat facing U.N.C.L.E. vis-à-vis his Chief Enforcement Agent. It was true that Napoleon Solo had been a target in THRUSH’s sights for quite some time now. There was nothing unexpected about that considering his extraordinary talents and position, but this particular threat that had Waverly’s attention was a horse of a different color.

The evidence pointed to THRUSH as being the source, but the threat had a distinctly personal feel to it that was most un-THRUSHlike. From the information Waverly had, it appeared that his entanglement in Czechoslovakia so long ago was the motivation behind a plan to strike at him now by destroying U.N.C.L.E. New York’s apparent future Number One, Section One. Napoleon Solo was to be just so much collateral damage in a plan to wreak revenge upon him personally.

Betrayal lay within the ranks - of that he was sure. Someone who appeared to be a trusted U.N.C.L.E. agent was instead, acting as a double-agent. It was imperative that the person’s identity be revealed, but time was running out. Very soon that person would make a move against Solo and some how, some way, take his CEA out permanently.

Was that person Agent Beams or could it be Beam’s partner, Agent Archer? Would the Inquest succeed in flushing out the threat? At this point it was possible that it was one or the other, both, or neither one. Unknown to the men, both rising stars of the enforcement agent section had long been the objects of quiet speculation by U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC’s head, Michael Finney, due to a series of what he’d called, ‘curious irregularities’ in certain high-profile as well as deep-cover missions.

Eventually, Finney had shared his concerns with U.N.C.L.E. New York. A subsequent discreet re-examination of the agents’ background files had revealed no discrepancies, no red flags. Both men had graduated top of their respective U.N.C.L.E. survival school classes, first Beams, then one year later, Archer.

Beams had arrived at U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC and been paired with a senior enforcement agent. The two had enjoyed a series of successes until eleven months into the partnership, the senior man had been killed under tragic, bizarre circumstances. One month later Archer arrived and was paired with Beams.

The duo had performed with an unusual high-degree of success - so much that Finney had often bragged to Waverly about having his own version of Solo and Kuryakin in the DC office- that was until three months ago when Finney had spoken to him regarding his concerns about the two men. There was disquiet in the ranks of Section Two. Beams and Archer had been involved in several missions with other Section Two agents. Some of the more critical missions had ended in disaster for the senior, seasoned agents, yet Beams and Archer had emerged each and every time not only unscathed, but victorious under increasingly phenomenal circumstances bordering on suspicious.

Alice’s exasperated laughter interrupted Waverly’s musings. “Cyaneous and celeste! Really! Neither one of these swatches look like sky-blue to me, do they to you, Alex dear?”

The right answer eluded him, but fortunately, Waverly had been saved from having to answer by the timely arrival of the U.N.C.L.E. courier bearing the requested transcript. Excusing himself with the utmost gentlemanly deportment, he’d gone upstairs to his private study, filled his pipe with his favorite tobacco, Isle of Dogs Number 22, and sat down to read.

As he’d examined Agent Beams’ oral testimony and Agent Archer’s written testimony that had been read into the record, the winged brows on his leathery face had drawn up slightly in response to what had been communicated regarding his Chief Enforcement Agent.

That another agent would be critical of Napoleon Solo certainly did not come as a surprise, for Solo, while well-liked and greatly admired by many, had his detractors too. However, Agent Archer’s highly critical report and Beams’ forced admission upon cross-examination that he had changed the outcome on his mission report, out of nothing more than pure personal dislike for Napoleon Solo, was a red flag that warranted his attention. Still, critical testimony was hardly proof of what he and Michael Finney intended Solo’s Inquest to accomplish.

Waverly would not second-guess himself, but the first phase of Solo’s Inquest had yielded nothing more remarkable than some unexpectedly hostile testimony. The second phase of Solo’s Inquest would provide, Waverly hoped, a second and irresistible opportunity for his enemy to show his hand in the belief that Solo’s career ambition had been derailed.

Waverly laid aside the transcript.

The efficient employee who had prepared the transcript had also included a written copy of the security report on the scuffle involving his two top enforcement agents and Agent Beams.

The oral security brief he’d received in his office that afternoon had been short on details as to what exactly had transpired. Mostly what he knew from what he’d been told was that somehow a confrontation between Napoleon Solo and Jerry Beams had resulted in Kuryakin being rushed to the infirmary in excruciating pain. Pipe in hand, the Continental Chief had savored the tobacco’s pungently sweet aroma before considering the nebulous business in earnest.

Waverly began reading the report, frowning in displeasure at finding that it too contained only the barest of facts: mostly that Beams had followed Solo out into the hall, things got physical, and Kuryakin was injured attempting to keep the two apart. Just what had been said and to whom? Solo was unflappable and quite skilled at using his mouth over his fists to put a fellow agent in his place when the situation required it. The man could, with unerring accuracy, boomerang an insult or slur, and do it while smiling his most charming, winning smile. Yet, somehow violence had erupted in the hallway.

That was completely unacceptable in Waverly’s eyes. It was enough that those who served U.N.C.L.E. had to contend with violence in their lives as a job requirement, but U.N.C.L.E. agents bringing violence into the sanctity of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters was unacceptable.

Waverly’s expression grew thoughtful as his instincts, still keen as ever, suggested in the barest of whispers of just what had precipitated the fisticuffs. Oh yes, he’d heard the tip of the rumors regarding an indecent relationship between his number one and two agents. Heard and dismissed them. The notion of a homosexual relationship between his top agents offended his sensibilities and was far too ridiculous to contemplate the veracity of such unsubstantiated gossip.

How many times had he half-jokingly admonished his heir apparent in the areas of restraint in his relentless pursuit of the opposite sex? He would certainly not have done so had he not seen with his own eyes that an occasional reminder to Solo was needed.

As for Kuryakin...well, his Russian agent exercised far more discretion and self-discipline over his libido than his partner. To Waverly’s disappointment, it was the one thing in the partnership that Kuryakin had not been able to influence for the better in Napoleon Solo. Nonetheless, Waverly was very much aware that Kuryakin had had romantic involvements with beautiful females too. There was that rather lively blond... _Marion Raven_ , his mind supplied. Yes, Kuryakin had been quite taken with her, hardly evidence to suggest that Kuryakin was engaging in activity that if it became known, would get him recalled to the Soviet Union.

Waverly was annoyed. He didn’t have time for such unprofessional antics when he was dealing with a credible threat to U.N.C.L.E.’s future leadership.

Waverly continued to puff his pipe, his mood darkening. No, it wouldn’t do to make a success of his plan to hold an Inquest in order to flush out the source of that threat only to have to separate his top enforcement team due to proven allegations of homosexuality.

So far it appeared that he’d done nothing more than put Napoleon Solo through an ordeal that had to be dealing him a painful blow to his professional pride. Napoleon Solo with his uncanny skills and killer smile was entirely too overconfident at times for his own good. A bit of enforced humble pie never hurt anyone. He should know - this afternoon he’d tasted a heaping serving of it himself by ensuring that an old incident, which by U.N.C.L.E. standards, would reflect poorly on his professionalism, had come to light.

That too was necessary and though Solo was unaware of why he’d had to endure such an ordeal, it was part and parcel of the all-important objective of ensuring that when the time came, Napoleon Solo would step into the position of Number One, Section One, ready to steer the organization he’d been instrumental in founding well into the future. In order to accomplish that, Waverly needed to achieve two things: first, he needed to flush out and neutralize the source of the threat; then Solo needed to be cleared of any wrong doing in the death of Dr. Phoenix. The Inquest was his plan to accomplish this and through it, he would kill two birds with one stone even if it killed him.

Solo would understand in due time, but whether or not his top agent would ever forgive him for his machinations was frankly, not something that particularly concerned him. Waverly likened his job to a fine game of chess and he was a man who enjoyed the game, whether it was moving inanimate pieces on a board, or moving the living, breathing kind about for the good of U.N.C.L.E..

So far by his estimation, he was playing the game, but playing poorly.

Eventually he’d put away the papers and then he and Alice prepared for bed.   
“Good night, dear,” Waverly said as he’d kissed his wife’s cheek.

“Sleep well, Alex.” Alice replied.

Waverly had turned off the lamp on his side of bed and soon thereafter, fallen asleep. Alice sat beside him in bed with the latest romance novel in her hands and powder blue cat-eyed reading glasses perched at the end of her nose.

It was the perfect picture of domesticity for the man at the top of the most powerful law enforcement agency in the world.

  
**********

At 3:45am Waverly awoke from a sound sleep, and unable to go back to sleep, he had gotten up and redressed. By 4:00am he’d summoned a driver to take him back to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters and when he’d arrived, he’d gone straight to his office, entering it via his private, secured entrance.

He was standing in his office, momentarily unmoving, cloaked in the darkness where he’d yet to turn on the light. He flipped the switch and walked over to a concealed wall safe. He exposed the safe and with aged but still dexterous fingers, deftly manipulated the combination until the door sprang open. Reaching inside, he rummaged through the contents until he found and extracted an envelope. He brought it over to his desk and sat down to contemplate its contents.

It was single piece of paper, carefully folded and along with it, a photograph, so yellow and cracked through age and rough use that the small image of a youth could barely be discerned.

_Far from the soil of Pilsen a sapling grew. Bitterly twisted are its roots,_

_watered from the poisoned well of the Judas cup Death are in it’s branches_ , the cryptic message read.

Pilsen. The word had instantly brought to mind old memories of Czechoslovakia and his choice to help save the life of Albert Goering over his official duty to escort Dieter Grunewald to the West. He’d hadn’t thought of Goering in so many years. The last he’d heard was that he was living a quiet life in Austria. He’d never heard anything of Karel Sobota and as for Grunewald, well there was no doubt the ex-Nazi scientist was still very much firmly and permanently in the hands of the Soviets.

Waverly examined the innocuous note he’d acquired in the spring of 1964. He’d pulled it from his overcoat pocket days after having attended an international meeting of western security agencies in London. His overcoat, like more than three-dozen other similar-looking gentlemen’s outerwear, had been in coat check a great deal of the time. He’d tried to trace the note’s exact origin and decipher its meaning, but both pursuits had initially proven fruitless.

Waverly could not help but wonder if there was a connection between his past actions and the note. He would have preferred to deem it too tenuous for serious consideration, but he could not afford to in the absence of some other, credible explanation.

As for the identity of the boy, the U.N.C.L.E. labs had tried restoring the photo to a greater clarity, but even with their sophisticated methods, the battered image remained stubbornly U.N.C.L.E.ar.

Grunewald had a son, Waverly’d recalled, but he could not remember the child’s name. The boy he’d seen long ago in Vlasim had been no more than eight years old and hiding behind his mother’s skirts. The boy had been completely unremarkable-looking _except_ for one quite unforgettable genetic feature: heterochromia iridis. The little blond-haired boy who had gazed at him with fear and suspicion did so with eyes of different colors, for he’d been born with one green eye and the other of pale blue. Unfortunately, Waverly couldn’t tell from the black and white photo if the eyes of the youth in the photo were the same as the boy’s.

Every end seemed to be a dead one. Discreet inquiries yielded nothing. Eventually, Waverly had dismissed the note as so much nonsense having nothing to do with his past actions in Czechoslovakia. He’d locked the note and photo away in his safe and all but forgotten about it until months later when he’d finally learned that it was Edward Whitt, an old colleague from his days at MI6, who had penned the note.

U.N.C.L.E. had both formal and informal agreements of cooperation with other security and intelligence agencies in America and around the world. But what was agreed upon on paper did not always translate to cooperation and information sharing in real life. Agency rivalry stilled seemed to be the order of the day, especially when it came to British intelligence.

In this case, it was British Intelligence Service that had learned of a possible new THRUSH plan targeting a certain former MI6 operative, an operative who had embarrassed the agency with a colossal failure of duty in 1946 - and somehow ended up as the head of the most powerful security agency in the world.

Instead of passing the information on through official channels, agency rivalry - or something more malevolent had reared its ugly head. Waverly was no longer one of their own. What British SIS had learned would stay within their walls. If the threat was credible, Waverly would learn of it soon enough and have his own people take care of it.

But Alexander Waverly, even after the official censure he’d received, was a man who had engendered a great deal of sustained loyalty and respect among his colleagues. Years later, he still had friends with long memories. Edward Whitt was once such friend. It was Whitt who had remembered Waverly from the tireless work, sacrifices and danger they’d faced side by side during the war years, and it was Whitt who, owing Waverly a past debt not easily repaid, saw the chance to do so and took it. Whitt had defied his agency and covertly sent his old friend and colleague the note, written with his customary flair for the dramatic.

Three months later, Whitt had contacted Waverly all the way from Algeria.

_“Must you be so enigmatic?” Waverly had demanded, when he’d finally gotten through to Whitt via secure channel. “What the devil does this mean?”_

_“It means, my good man, that according to an SIS Soviet source, you’ve got left over baggage from you little ‘botched’ mission in Czechoslovakia,” Whitt replied, his word choice not at all delicate. “In other words, Alex, the chickens may be heading home to roost. Well, one specific rooster anyway.” He laughed then. The sound rang with his own unique blend of benevolent mischief._

_“Grunewald?” Waverly asked incredulously “The Soviets will never let him go.”_

_“They don’t have to. Intelligence reports indicate he’s dead.”_

_There’d been silence on the other end, pregnant with all the things that Alexander Waverly would never express aloud: regret, a resurgence of shame at having failed in his professional duties._

_Gruffness in his voice was his only concession to the unwanted emotions. “What of his wife and son?” he asked._

_“Grunewald’s wife apparently died sometime before. I imagine she didn’t have an easy time as a reluctant guest of the Soviets.”_

_“Why don’t you stick that knife in just a bit more, Edward?” Waverly replied testily._

_“My apologies,” Edward smoothly replied. “As for the son...,” his voice trailed off before picking up strength, “Eugen Grunewald was conscripted into the military where the Soviets put to good use the high intelligence he apparently inherited from his father. Listen to me carefully, Alexander, Eugen Grunewald disappeared from the Soviet Union.”_

_“Killed by the Soviets or languishing in some Siberian gulag,” Waverly concluded, his voice blunt._

_“No, Alex, I didn’t say he disappeared in the Soviet Union, I said he disappeared from the Soviet Union.”_

_Waverly’s eyebrows lifted to new heights. “Defected? To where?”_

_“Not quite,” Edward stated, sounding a tad gleeful. “He escaped from behind the Iron Curtain - smuggled from right out from under their not so vigilant noses. The Soviet intelligence apparatus was and still is in an uproar over it.” Whitt chuckled. “If you only knew how we know this -”_

_“Who smuggled him out? Waverly interrupted._

_“THRUSH.” Edward had sounded decidedly grimmer though it did nothing to disguise the fact that he was impressed by the feat._

_“And their purpose?”_

_“Revenge.”_

_Waverly’s back stiffened and his mind began to run through the possible scenarios of just how THRUSH and Eugen Grunewald could have discovered that it was he who had failed to escort Dieter Grunewald to freedom in the West. He remained silent and Whitt pressed on. “We believe that THRUSH and Grunewald have joined forces for a plan of attack against U.N.C.L.E.. THRUSH for the usual reasons, and Eugen‘s - well, I should think his motivation for doing so would be clear.”_

_“He’s being used by THRUSH. The question is how? And where is he?” Waverly added._

_“That I don’t know. My advice is to you is look within, Alex.”_   
_“If you are attempting to suggest that Eugen Grunewald himself plans to infiltrate U.N.C.L.E.? Good God, Edward, that’s preposterous! He‘d never get past the vigorous screening process.”_

_“I’d say your organization may already have a wolf in sheep’s clothing. But then your agents are hardly lambs, are they?” Whitt chuckled._

_He added in a more serious tone, “Alexander, I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this intelligence is. If it becomes known that I shared it with you - ”_

_“Then you’ll have to start looking over your shoulder for the MI6 colleague of yours who just happens to also be a double agent,” Waverly replied dryly._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://romanseartfanfic.com


	23. Chapter 23

By 6:00 am Lisa Rogers, Alexander Waverly’s personal secretary, was just arriving at headquarters. Waverly greeted the dark-haired beauty and immediately asked for and received the morning’s stack of intelligence reports.

He took his time going through them. In two hours the second phase of Napoleon Solo’s Inquest would commence. In the meantime he had a phone call to make. He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Miss Rogers?” he called.

“Yes, Mr. Waverly?”

“Patch me through to U.N.C.L.E. Washington D.C. Channel K, security pattern four.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The call went through and presently, Waverly heard Lisa Rogers announcing Michael Finney at the other end.

“Alexander, must you call before I’ve had coffee?” Finney groused good- naturedly.

“Good morning to you. We all don’t have the luxury of sleeping in late as you apparently do.”

Finney, unsure of Waverly’s mood, became all business. “What can I do for you and what the devil happened at the Inquest?”

“The testimony your agents delivered against my Chief Enforcement Agent was surprisingly hostile in the extreme. Fortunately for Mr. Solo, the board returned a decision which saved him from acquiring a permanent black mark on his record.”

Finney paused to digest this - quickly discerning what had not been said. “I take it you believe the testimony was false? Even so, that is no proof that they are double agents, or involved in any plot against you.”

“Quite right, but it’s the why of what occurred that begs an answer. One would do well to have a firm understanding of why these agents would lie before casually dismissing it. There is still time for the Inquest to get to the bottom of this and flush out the enemy.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“I have already done it by bringing to light the events of Czechoslovakia,” Waverly replied shortly. He abruptly changed the subject. “When is Mr. Archer set to return to Washington?” he inquired.

“He was scheduled to return tomorrow. Yesterday evening however, I received a transmission from him stating that he’d be returning today. Why?”

“Today…” Waverly repeated thoughtfully, ignoring the question. He was still bothered by both agents’ testimonies. If Archer was ordered to stop by on the pretext of being asked to take back a copy of the transcript for Michael Finney, then he could in the process, discuss certain aspects of Archer’s testimony. An idea was taking shape in his mind. “Will Archer’s plane be making a stop over first in New York?”

“Wait a moment while I confirm.”

A minute, then two ticked by while Finney sought the information from his own competent personal secretary.

Finney returned with an answer. “Yes, his plane will stop briefly at LaGuardia before continuing on to Washington DC.”

“Good. I’d like Mr. Archer to make a stop here first before continuing on to DC. Kindly contact him and inform him he’s to deplane in New York. I’ll send around a car to pick him up.”

If Finney balked at Waverly’s lack of deference (no matter how cosmetic it would have been, if present) to his authority over his asset, he did not show it. “Of course.” The barest hesitancy followed before he asked, “Why do you want him there, Alexander?”

And Finney was left wondering exactly what part of Waverly‘s response was factual and what part facetious when he said, “To look into his eyes.”

  
*******

At 7:50am Napoleon Solo found himself once again in the same windowless room with its same stiff-backed formality. The same three cheerless faces looked at him from the table across from him, inspecting his person with the same inscrutable expressions. As before, Alistair McKinney sat next to him wearing yet another precisely pressed, grey, pin-striped suit and black bow-tie. Napoleon inanely wondered if he went to McKinney’s house would he find a closet filled with identical suits.

If there was one stark difference in the room today it was the number of individuals already seated in the observation area. It seemed to Napoleon to have doubled in size. _Don’t want to deprive the other half of U.N.C.L.E.’s under-employed their fair share of the entertainment, do we?_ The thought was cynical, he acknowledged, but it was also realistic. He knew he was respected and generally well-liked within the U.N.C.L.E. ranks, however, for all it’s altruistic ideals, internal politics up and down the organization’s advancement ladder, were on occasion, about as treacherous as a THRUSH cease-fire. Those who wished to see him disinherited from the line of succession to the Number One job would have one more bite at the apple.

He supposed that this morning the chief topic of conversation around coffee messes and water coolers throughout the building had been regarding the controversial black mark on Waverly’s formerly pristine professional record. The fact that Napoleon had been cleared of the first matter under investigation had apparently not served to disinterest some from becoming additional spectators. On the contrary, those who missed the first phase of his Inquest were evidently not inclined to miss an opportunity to witness any more shocking revelations.

Had Illya been here the Russian would have looked at him with that subtle shade of warmth reserved chiefly for him, and with patently exaggerated, seriousness ‘consoled’ him with a saying pickled in gallows humor. But no accented voice mocked him with sarcastic good-humor. His partner was stuck in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary and Napoleon had not had the chance to stop by and see how he had fared throughout the night.

At exactly 8:00am, Yi Chun spoke.

“The time is 0800. Per rule eleven of United Network Command for Law and Enforcement’s Code of Conduct, the Inquest concerning Chief Enforcement Agent Napoleon Solo’s actions in the death of THRUSH scientist, Dr. Mannheim Phoenix will commence.”

Yi Chun, as he had before, ensured that Napoleon understood his rights and the rules of procedure. Napoleon answered firmly that yes, he quite understood them. What he understood was that it hardly mattered since the rules were whatever his superior wanted them to be and could be changed at anytime. Napoleon wisely kept that more jaded version of a response to himself.

Then with grave formality Yi Chun stated for the record the purpose of this particular phase of the Inquest. “The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement is an organization characterized by discipline, integrity and - ingenuity.” Yi Chun paused ever so slightly and for the first time, looked directly at Solo. Solo looked back with curiosity. Had the dark, almond-shaped eyes contained a subtle, supportive acknowledgment of yesterday’s decision that had cleared him then and perhaps would clear him again? Napoleon scarcely had time to wonder when Yi Chun continued reading from the papers he was holding.

“U.N.C.L.E. Rules of Engagement, among other things, contain the operational guidelines by which field agents conduct themselves. The Rules of Engagement have been crafted and honed down through the years, and as a result they have proven most efficacious in assisting field agents in achieving U.N.C.L.E. goals while preserving the lives of its agents.”

Yi Chun shuffled the papers until he found the one he wanted.   
“Section 14-A-11 of those rules specifically prohibit the intentional killing of unarmed individuals. The same section specifically mandates the use of sleep darts or other non-lethal means of subduing unarmed enemies. Furthermore, the section specifically proscribes the untimely killing of any ‘high-value enemy’ until they have been properly and thoroughly interrogated by U.N.C.L.E. trained-interrogators. Additionally, an agent who has taken the life of a captured high-value enemy for revenge or other personal motivation has committed an unjustified killing.

Napoleon maintained his poker faced expression, but even as he sat there, the conflicted feelings about what had transpired arose once again from deep within. It felt like betrayal to him. Betrayal to Illya after he’d told the Russian that he believed him when Illya had insisted that he’d not done anything wrong. Yet as sure as he sat there, he didn’t give a damn that he’d deprived U.N.C.L.E. of the chance to debrief the mad scientist and appropriate his scientific advances in full. He didn’t have to close his eyes to recall the vision of Illya’s hand grasping for life above the dirt that covered the rest of him. Grasping for life and failing. The THRUSH devil had caused Illya a great amount of suffering and he was still suffering today.

Still…he had not been able to quiet the other voice within that mocked him and told him that his love for his partner had permanently diluted his training and discipline.

Yi Chun’s voice interrupted Napoleon’s wandering thoughts. “Dr. Mannheim Phoenix was a scientist actively engaged in the development of cutting-edge, scientific reproductive technology in support of the advancement of THRUSH’s ongoing plans for world domination.   
We the board members have been asked to examine the facts and circumstances of Dr. Phoenix’s death and determine if Agent Napoleon took the life of Mannheim Phoenix by willfully contravening U.N.C.L.E. Rules of Engagement.”

Mr. Witherspoon spoke next. “The board will call its first witness, Dr. Martin Hockert, U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC headquarters, Medical Examiner.”

The side door opened and the large frame of Martin Hockert appeared in the doorway. The doctor appeared to be momentarily caught off-guard to see the room packed so full of people. He gazed around, and his hand shifted the folder he held from hand to hand.

Dr. Hockert nervously ran a pale hand through his dark hair. Though short, the cut of his dark hair did nothing to hide the lank quality of it. Dr. Hockert’s heavy-framed, coke-bottle glasses magnified his large blue eyes giving him a perpetual a bug-eyed appearance. He was without doubt, the whitest man Solo had ever seen. _What did you expect? The man works in a morgue in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters._

  
Quickly he collected himself and walked over to the witness stand before squeezing himself into the chair. Dr. Hockert was quickly sworn in and   
Stewart Rolf commenced the questioning. “Dr. Hockert, please state your name and credentials for the record.”

“Certainly. My name is Dr. Martin Hockert. I hold a medical license and have been employed as a forensic pathologist at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Washington DC for the past five years.”

“Dr. Hockert, did you perform an autopsy on the body of Dr. Mannheim Phoenix?”

“ I did.” Dr. Hockert shifted his bulk in his chair and began pulling out papers from the folder he carried. “I have made copies of my report that document my findings. It may be helpful to the board members to have a copy as I explain my findings.”

“Good. Thank you Dr. Hockert. We’ll take those now,” Rolf replied. He nodded his head in Helen Zimmerman’s direction. Miss Zimmerman, as she had the previous day, was performing clerking duties for the Inquest. The sound of her high-heels clicking on the floor accompanied her as she efficiently passed out copies of the report to the board members and to Mr. McKinney.

Solo tensed. He was about to experience what he considered to be the most egregious example of inequity between the rights of the individual who was the subject of an U.N.C.L.E. Inquest, and the procedural rules of the Inquest. According to the rules, no one, not even the board members, were allowed to see the autopsy report prior to the Inquest. Napoleon hadn’t cared how many times McKinney patiently explained that, no, an Inquest was not a trial; no, the formal rules of evidence did not apply, he’d alternated between disbelief, cynicism and disgust at the patent unfairness of it.

Napoleon observed McKinney reading the report and felt the tendrils of dismay creeping into his soul. McKinney was just as much a master at maintaining the proverbial poker face when required, but even the lawyer’s considerable control was not enough to mask the subtle signs that McKinney was not happy. He longed to snatch the report from McKinney’s hand but he restrained himself as McKinney began to make notes upon the report.

Rolf resumed the questioning. “Dr. Hockert, for the record, please state what your conclusion is regarding the cause of death of Dr. Phoenix.”

Dr. Hockert looked uncomfortable. “Certainly.” He cleared his throat before speaking, “Ah…to put it in the vernacular, the victim died of hangman’s fracture.”

  
*******

The very room itself seemed to shift and the sounds of barely muffled gasps erupted. Napoleon felt himself growing hot as a sick feeling clawed its way down his throat and settled in his stomach. He knew what a hangman’s fracture was. As a youth he’d been enamored of the old west. He’d read more than his fair share of pulp western novels in which justice was dispensed to the convicted miscreant via a long drop at the end of a noose tied about the neck. The sign of the hangman’s proficiency was in his ability to execute by breaking the condemned person’s neck without causing decapitation.

This is what he’d done in his fit of rage and unconscious desire to avenge Illya. He’d punched the crazy old bastard in the face so hard that the force of the blow had snapped the man’s head back, technically severing the neck from the spine. The part of him that was stubbornly glad he’d sent the man to hell, still strongly wished it had not been that way.

McKinney was quick. He rose to his feet and smoothly registered an objection. “As the purpose of this phase of the Inquest is to determine if there was any wrongdoing on the part of Mr. Solo, my client objects to the prejudicial characterization of Dr. Phoenix as the ‘victim’.

Yi Chun nodded. “Mr. Solo’s objection is duly noted. Dr. Hockert, please refrain from referring to the deceased as the victim.”

McKinney sat down and Yi Chun spoke again. “Dr. Hockert, please clarify for the record what you mean by the term hangman‘s fracture.”

“Certainly. Hangman’s fracture is a term commonly used to describe hyper-extension of the neck so severe that the skull separates from the   
lower cervical spine. It is my opinion after having examined the deceased that there is no other evidence of trauma, illness, or congenital defect that could be reasonably inferred to be the cause of death.”

It would have been difficult not to hear the slightly caustic stress Dr. Hockert placed on the word ‘deceased’. It signaled something unprofessional to Napoleon and it made him wonder rather uncomfortably if he needed to be concerned about Dr. Hockert on a personal level.

Dr. Hockert continued, “In the case of Dr. Phoenix, I concluded that the extreme impact to his face caused his head to bend so far back as to simulate the effect of the neck separating from the spine as in often occurs in execution by hanging.”

What followed next was very nearly two hours worth of probing question after probing question as to the spectrum of other tests that had been conducted upon the body. Napoleon began to suspect that the three board members were trying in their own way to find some other explanation for the scientist’s death.

He certainly had no objection to that, no siree.

Apparently Dr. Hockert had no objection either. Rather, he appeared quite satisfied to move into lecture mode, droning on about unstable fractures of   
the C2 pedicles, forward displacements, and C2’s on top of C3’s. Eventually, he produced an illustration and he proceeded to display it on a screen with the use of an overhead projector. He described and pointed out the key anatomical parts commonly involved in hangman’s fracture.

All the while, McKinney, with his steady, quiet presence, kept up his unobtrusive writing. He never looked Hockert’s way except for once when the doctor began his elucidation of the hangman’s fracture illustration. If Napoleon didn’t know better, he’d swear the man wasn’t even listening, but doing something more engaging - like calculating next year’s taxes.

At 10:00am the board seemed to concede that they had exhausted any other line of questioning concerning the autopsy procedures. Napoleon’s nerves were on edge. McKinney would have his turn to question Dr. Hockert and he’d finally get see what McKinney had been writing all that time.

“The time is 1005 and we will now take a thirty minute break and resume at 1035,” Yi Chun announced. “Dr. Hockert you are reminded to discuss your testimony with no one during the break.” With that, three board members rose from their chairs and departed the room. The room erupted with the general commotion of people talking and metal chairs scraping as they were pushed back. The observation gallery emptied out in short order until all who remained were Napoleon and McKinney.

Napoleon stood up.

“Sit down,” McKinney said without looking up from his notes.

Napoleon did not comply. “What do you need?” he asked brusquely. He was on a mission to check on his partner and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I can’t change the autopsy results. I punched Phoenix. I hit an unarmed man in the face hard enough to literally take his head off. End of story,” Napoleon knew he sounded resigned. He was.

“It’s not your job to change the autopsy tests and procedure. It _is_ however, my job to change the conclusion,” McKinney remarked mildly.

This of course piqued Napoleon’s interests. “You have a better one to offer?”

McKinney’s hawkish eyes peered intently at Napoleon and his face assumed a thoughtful expression. “We shall see.”

  
********

When Napoleon walked into the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary he found Dr. Greenberg standing in front of the small hub that served as the nurses’ station. The doctor was holding a medical chart in his hands and by the way he was scowling at it, he was not happy.

Napoleon tensed. “How’s Illya?”

“Napoleon. Good morning to you too.” Dr. Greenberg snapped the file shut and looked up. Though his kind face was lined with concern, his eyes still regarded Napoleon with a twinkle of good humor.

Nonetheless, Napoleon caught the mild reproach as he looked at the medical professional. Dr. Greenberg was a man he genuinely liked and had trusted time and again to heal his body and make him fit again for field duty when he‘d needed his medical expertise. Solo fished for his manners and managed to catch a remnant. “Good morning, Dr. Greenberg. Listen, I’m sorry to skip the pleasantries, but I’m a little short on time and I’d really like to know how my partner’s doing before I have to get back. Frankly, you don’t look very happy and I presume that’s Illya’s record you’re frowning at.”

“I understand.” Dr. Greenberg gave a small sigh. “Unfortunately, you are right - on both counts.” He paused as if reluctant to say more.

Solo’s eyes narrowed.

“There was an incident last night.”

“An incident? What kind of an incident? Napoleon demanded tersely. For God’s sake he’d left his partner in the safety of the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. What kind of trouble could the Russian possibly have gotten into when by rights he should have spent the night in his bed asleep? _This is Illya we’re talking about_ , his mind mockingly reminded him.

Dr. Greenberg’s face assumed an apologetic expression. “I left instructions that if Illya requested, he be given a mild sedative to help him sleep. Apparently one of my nurses took it upon herself to force Illya to take a stronger dose of the sedative than the optional one I had prescribed. Let’s just say that it caused a bad reaction that had the place in an uproar.”

For a moment, Napoleon could only look at the doctor incredulously. He was trying to accept that the doctor was actually telling him that a medical professional who was supposed to provide aid and comfort had violated his partner by forcing a strong sedative on him against his will. Illya had a hard enough time submitting to medical authority. It had taken a long time before the Russian would even admit that he actually _did_ trust Dr. Greenberg.

Napoleon trained a granite gaze on the doctor as anger surged to the surface, but he spoke calmly enough as he attempted to clarify the situation. “Your instructions were clear that a mild sedative was authorized, but only if Illya wanted it?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And Illya refused it but then one of your nurses administered the sedative?”

“Yes. What happened was inexcusable and the nurse - ”

“And instead of accepting his answer, this...nurse took it upon herself to not only force the sedative on him, but she increased the dosage as well?” Napoleon cut off the impending apology and continued his interrogation.

“That’s right,” Greenberg admitted, still upset himself. He said no more, perhaps sensing the futility of it in the wake of Napoleon’s obvious anger.

“And what happened?” Napoleon asked tersely.

“He was subjected to a particularly severe episode of night terrors and the nurses had quite a time bringing him out of it.”

Somewhere in his mind Napoleon knew that Dr. Greenberg would have already dealt with the nurse responsible. He should let the matter go, but he was far too angry to pretend otherwise. “I trust this nurse won’t be allowed anywhere near Illya in the future?”

“I’ve handled it. You have my word,” Greenberg added.

Napoleon spared the doctor one last look that clearly communicated that the matter had better have been handled before he gave a short nod of acceptance. “And the rest?” Napoleon asked tightly.

“Illya’s temperature is up and I’m very concerned that this morning’s blood tests now definitely indicate the presence of a particularly virulent strain of bacteria present in his blood stream. I don’t have to tell you how serious something like this can become.”

_No you don’t_. Napoleon looked grimly at Dr. Greenberg as the memory of a strained Illya explaining to him the potential dangers of his body going into septic shock, sprang to the forefront.

I’ve increased the amount of intravenous antibiotics and introduced a steroid to reduce the pain and inflammation around the screws holding the tibia together.”

“Exactly how long will it take before the medication starts to work?”

“I can’t give you any guarantees, Napoleon. Every case is different, but usually, after a week or two, there should be a marked reduction in the amount of bacteria in the blood stream.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Let’s hope we won’t have to cross that bridge. Now if you’ll excuse me I have two walk-ins to see and you no doubt are running out of time if you want to visit with your partner before you need to return.”

“Right.” Napoleon was already moving away in the direction of Illya’s room.

When he arrived, he quietly opened the door and stuck his head inside to get a glimpse of his partner in an unguarded state.

The anger that had simmered down just a short while ago threatened to rekindle anew at the sight of his partner. Illya was awake. The Russian looked exhausted, the fine features of his face drawn and wan. The golden head of hair which Illya always kept neat, in spite of its youthful length, looked lackluster and bedraggled.

Napoleon blew out a breath then casually entered the room. “Hey, you up for company?”

“I’m not too busy.” The words were certainly recognizable as Illya’s customary dry wit, but there was no mistaking the unspoken relief in his partner’s eyes upon seeing him. That his partner was glad to see him should have made him happy, but the fact that the Russian was feeling vulnerable enough to show it did not.

Napoleon decided to play ignorant of Illya’s bad night. He casually perched himself on the edge of his partner’s bed. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay very long. I just came by to see how you’re doing.”

“As you can see, I’m fine.” Illya’s face was suddenly a closed book and Napoleon knew he would get nothing from the reticent man on that topic. Illya shifted in the bed and gave Napoleon a long appraising look. “How are things going?”

Napoleon didn’t answer right away, restraining himself from saying that his partner looked far from fine. In fact, he was fairly sure that whatever big gun antibiotics Dr. Greenberg was loading the slight Russian with, they were wreaking havoc on his body. Solo looked away and his gaze inadvertently locked upon the hand that had dealt Dr. Phoenix the killing blow. He flexed then clenched it, flexed then clenched it, fascinated by the repetitive motion.

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon stilled his hand. “I was angry enough to send him all the way to the moon for what he’d done to you,” he muttered.

“To hell was close enough,” Illya replied coolly.

“Almost.” Napoleon smiled without mirth, a cold, hard expression. “Did you know that I quite literally took the man’s head off?” He asked quite conversationally. The chilly expression had faded from his face and something undecipherable had taken its place. He didn’t wait for his partner to respond. “No, of course you didn‘t know that. Neither did I until this morning, but Waverly did. Oh yes, he knew.”

Illya spoke sharply, “Many an evil man has died at your hand, Napoleon. Tell me, can you remember all of their names or how they died?”

Then, as if seeing that his words were having no effect, Illya added wearily, a small grimace of pain passing over his face as he gentled his voice, “What does it matter?”

Napoleon stood up then, upset, but not at Illya. He shook his head in helpless frustration at still not being able to properly sort it out after all this time. “It matters to U.N.C.L.E....and God help me, despite what that bastard did to you, it matters to me.”

“You did not assassinate him,” Illya persisted.

“Oh no? Tell me, do you know what the term is for what Phoenix died of?”

“I know it,” Illya gazed steadily at Napoleon.

Napoleon snorted. “Hangman’s fracture. Quite appropriate for an efficient execution wouldn‘t you say?”

Illya sighed tiredly. “I don’t think it matters what I say. What’s important now is what does McKinney have to say?”

Napoleon shrugged. Certainly he was cynical enough to believe that as a lawyer, McKinney had the skills to turn what evidently was the truth about the doctor’s death into a lie to benefit his client, yet Napoleon still had the faith to believe that McKinney was a man of integrity and would not. McKinney would be ruthless in securing a victory, but he would be honest in falling in defeat.

“He hasn’t said much.” Napoleon glanced at his wristwatch. “But he’s going to have plenty to say to me if I don’t get back in the next two minutes.” He studiously ignored Illya’s expression, which communicated all too eloquently the Russian’s desire to get right out of the bed and attend the Inquest. Napoleon stood up, straightened his jacket and tie as he walked towards the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll be here,” Illya replied somehow managing to make the statement sound to Napoleon’s ears, like it would be the very last place on Earth he’d rather be found.

  
******* 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	24. Chapter 24

*******

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Washington DC

Eugen Grunewald, AKA Gerald Beams, was in his office sitting at his desk situated directly across from Arnold Archer’s. Beams chewed furiously on the end of a cheap ballpoint pen as he contemplated his partner’s empty desk. The same problem that had relentlessly dogged him since the early morning call from his THRUSH handler, plagued him still and yet he was no closer to formulating a solution then he’d been this morning - all because plans had inconveniently shifted once again to his detriment.

What had been sufficient time to formulate a plan to take care of Archer when his arrival was supposed to be two days from now had evaporated with the unpleasant news that, not only was the agent due back today, but was making a mysterious stopover at U.N.C.L.E. New York.

It had been sheer luck that he’d found out about the changed plans. Michael Finney needed a new secretary, Beams thought smugly. Yes, he’d fucked the man’s secretary, Anne McLane, with her big bosom and bigger overbite. Two weeks later he’d earned an unexpected bonus when he’d been able to use her to get the all information he’d needed on Archer’s new itinerary.

The curses Beam had made in his native German were only in his head, never uttered aloud, for he could not afford even one slip that he was not who he was pretending to be. It was all in the details. No, Gerald Beams, the purported third-generation son of good, all-American Nebraskan farmers and who spoke with a mid-western accent certainly did not know German, and certainly was not related to Dieter and Katrina Grunewald.

Beams rubbed his eyes, careful not to dislodge the ingeniously designed colored contact lenses THRUSH had given him to disguise his eye abnormality. He never went without them, though in his opinion, their brown color made him look racially inferior.

What to do about Archer...He was stuck here in DC. There was no way he could get away and take care of his partner personally. He would need a proxy, someone in New York who could get to Archer. Archer would need a ride from the airport to the New York headquarters. What if he met with an ‘unfortunate’, fatal accident before he arrived? Yes, it would be very easy to place a few phone calls and locate one of the many cab drivers THRUSH had in their employ. A speeding cab, blocked-off egress, an unavoidable collision resulting in Archer’s body being flung through the air like a rag doll.

Beams smiled.

  
*******

“Does Mr. Solo have any questions for this witness?”

The break had ended. The players were once again in place and Napoleon Solo was on the verge of discovering just what Alistair McKinney had in mind for his cross-examination of Dr. Hockert.

Solo became disgusted with himself when, upon hearing the question, a sudden surge of adrenaline set his nerves on edge. Certainly, the query had not come as a surprise; not when he’d been anticipating it all morning. Nonetheless, when it came, it delivered a shock to his system. His mind, which had been preoccupied with thoughts of one blond, and usually surly Russian, snapped back to the urgency of the here and now. In the face of his lack of knowledge as to what McKinney had in mind, he was at once both curious and anxious to see how events would unfold. Always though, the customary in-control outward Solo appearance was ever- present, acting as both his weapon and shield.

McKinney rose swiftly to his feet to answer the question. “I believe I have one or two questions for this witness.” The dapper lawyer with his grey, hawk eyes and prim manners walked across the room towards the witness stand and halted a pace or two away from Dr. Hockert. For his part, the physician was looking at McKinney with an expression on his face as though he was envisioning the lawyer as an over-ripe corpse. “Dr. Hockert, in the average month, you are not called upon to perform many autopsies, are you?” McKinney asked pleasantly.

Hockert settled back in his seat and crossed one cumbersome leg over the other. “True. Fortunately, I perform autopsies only occasionally - if circumstances indicate one is necessary in the event that we lose one of our agents - or there is a need such as in the case of Dr. Phoenix.”

“And you have an assistant, who is not a doctor, working in the morgue with you, correct?”

A slight pause heralded the response. McKinney‘s sharp eyes narrowed. “Yes,” Hockert mumbled. “His name is Steven Hill. No doubt you know he’s training to become a forensic lab specialist. ”

“I’m sure he’s a great help to you.” McKinney soothed patronizingly.   
Napoleon’s curiosity increased when Dr. Hockert flushed and look away. Hockert was perspiring now and Napoleon observed a drop of sweat begin a long-winding descent down the big man’s face.

That Dr. Hockert had an assistant working for him was news to Solo. Had this trainee been involved in the autopsy in some capacity? Dr. Hockert had made it sound as though he and he alone had performed the job. Napoleon was intrigued by the possibilities and grew somewhat annoyed when McKinney moved on from the topic of Steven Hill. Sheer discipline kept him from interrupting with a question of his own. It wasn’t the first time that Napoleon had been forced to accept the fact that he wasn't entirely in control of things. He needed to trust McKinney, but it was difficult when trust given was measured against the standard that was Illya Kuryakin.

“Before you commenced the autopsy of Dr. Phoenix’s body, you were apprised of the alleged events surrounding his death, isn’t that correct?” Solo heard McKinney ask.

Dr. Hockert appeared to consider Mr. McKinney for a moment before he shrugged and answered. “I may have heard something about the incident when Dr. Phoenix‘s body was brought to the morgue.”

McKinney raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it true that what you heard was that the CEA of U.N.C.L.E. New York punched Dr. Phoenix in the face hard enough that he died?”

Dr. Hockert looked with reproach at Solo. “Yes, that’s what I heard, but if you think I based my conclusion - ”

“Thank you, Dr. Hockert,” McKinney smoothly interrupted.

“Dr. Hockert, when you heard that Mr. Solo punched Dr. Phoenix in the face isn’t it true that you immediately thought of hangman’s fracture or a similar-type injury as a possible cause of death prior to any actual examination?”

“Naturally. There is nothing unusual or unprofessional about theorizing on possible causes of death prior to an examination of the vict…er body. And yes, hangman’s fracture was one possibility that came to mind,” Hockert conceded.

“You discussed Mr. Solo’s alleged actions with your assistant?”

Hockert shrugged. “I may have. I don’t recall.”

“Very well.” McKinney chose not to challenge the dubious answer and moved on - physically walking away from the witness stand over to the medical illustration exhibit. Mr. McKinney halted in front of the drawing and appeared to study it, though Napoleon doubted that he was actually doing that.

Mr. McKinney’s seeming study of the drawing grew in length until at last Yi-Chun cleared his throat. “Do you have a question for this witness, Mr. McKinney?”

Mr. McKinney whirled around. “Why yes. I do.” Hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight, he strolled back over to Dr. Hockert who was looking at McKinney with an annoying smirk on his face.

“Dr. Hockert. Thank you for providing that most detailed illustration, but isn‘t it true that as informative as it is, it has little actual relevance to these proceedings?”

Hockert’s smirk grew more pronounced. “Perhaps you need me to explain the mechanics of hangman’s fracture for you again? I can go slower if need be.”

McKinney smiled though his own expression lacked any sign of humor. “That isn’t necessary. But what would be more helpful is if you would explain your findings using Dr. Phoenix’s actual x-ray films, would it not?” McKinney didn’t give him a chance to answer before adding, “you _did_ make your conclusion based on an x-ray, correct?”

“Of course x-rays were taken.”

McKinney stared at Dr. Hockert coolly. “I will ask you the question again later. Then perhaps you will be kind enough to answer it. In the meantime, let me say that I’m astounded. A man of your intelligence thinks the actual x-rays documenting the conclusion as to the subject’s cause of death has no evidentiary value at these proceedings?”

Hockert’s smirk vanished and was replaced by a look of consternation. A curious flush crept its way up and around the man’s ears, and his thick neck. “Of course they would be relevant. It just so happens that in this case, the quality of the films rendered them inadmissible.”

Solo’s respect for McKinney increased as he observed, for the first time, a genuine look of astonishment - like a flash of lightning - appear and disappear on the lawyer’s face, only to be replaced by the shrewdest, most calculating of looks.`

The shark had smelled dinner.

“Your assistant was the one who took the x-ray, isn’t that true? McKinney asked in a conversational tone, hands clasped behind his straight-backed posture.

“Yes, he did - as he has many times in the past,” Hockert hastened to add.

“Yes, of course.” McKinney inclined his head in token agreement. “Yet the x-rays that your experienced assistant took somehow ended up....damaged, yes?”

Hockert shifted in his seat. “Yes,” the doctor admitted, his voice sounding low and reluctant. McKinney’s line of questioning appeared to have blunted some of the doctor’s sharp-edged arrogance, observed Napoleon approvingly. But Solo frowned when the strong personality appeared to rally.

“I would remind you that the esteemed board members have already inquired about the many tests I conducted on the body - and extensively I might add.”

“Quite so, and yet you managed to elude more exacting questions concerning x-rays.” McKinney leaned in close. “That is because the x-rays were too damaged for you to read, isn’t that true?”

“No that’ s not true!” the doctor objected, red-faced and clearly annoyed. “My assistant violated standard protocol when he accidentally spilled very hot coffee on the films, causing significant damage. Even so, I was still able to see the suggestion of hangman’s fracture from the portion of the films that had sustained less damage.”

“Dr. Hockert, isn’t it true that there may be another reason for why a competent doctor such as yourself could look at a limited portion of an x-ray and end up with a false positive identification of hangman’s fracture?”

Napoleon doubted that anyone missed the subtle emphasis McKinney placed on the word, “competent”.

“Well...yes, I suppose a congenital abnormality of the C2 vertebra could.” Dr. Hockert answered, “ however, it would have to be some kind of very _rare_ disorder.”

“Hmm. You mean chronic spondylolithesis of the axis, correct?”

Dr. Hocket‘s back visibly stiffened. “You’ve done your homework. Then you know that chronic spondylolithesis of the axis is an extremely rare disorder.”

“And you didn’t examine him for this rare disorder did you?”

“No. I did not....that’s how rare a disorder it is and given the circumstances of his death, not likely relevant to an actual cause of death.”

“Isn’t it true that you never considered that possibility because you had already formulated your conclusion before you even began the autopsy?”

McKinney seemed oblivious to the hot hostility his witness was emanating towards him. Hockert was glaring at McKinny openly. “No, that is not true, _Mr._ McKinney. As a _doctor_ , I have performed hundreds of autopsies. I know how to conduct them properly. I’ve read thousands of x-rays during my career. I saw enough on the x-ray that was suggestive of hangman’s fracture.”

“You would agree that detecting a suggestion of hangman’s fracture from a damaged x-ray is not the same as seeing the clear evidence of hangman’s fracture from an undamaged x-ray, correct?”

“No it is not the same, but that does not change my conclusion based on my _professional_ opinion,” asserted Dr. Hockert, once again looking smug and arrogant.

Napoleon avidly watched the sparring back and forth. From the get-go he’d had to take it on faith that McKinney would find a way to shed doubt on Dr. Hockert’s conclusion. Inwardly, Napoleon had to acknowledge that it would take more than that to convince the board members.

McKinney’s shrewd grey eyes were trained not on Dr. Hockert, but rather on the board members as he spoke softly. “So I will ask again, you did not base your conclusion that Dr. Phoenix died of a hangman’s fracture on an x-ray, did you?”

The seconds of following silence felt like tediously passing minutes to Napoleon as he awaited Hockert’s response.

Dr. Hockert’s voice was tight. “No. I did not, but - ”

“Thank you, that will be all,” McKinney smoothly cut him off and turned away as if dismissing the witness. He had obtained the testimony that he’d sought and like any good lawyer, McKinney knew that quitting while ahead was just as important in the game as controlling the witness. Unfortunately, Dr. Hockert proved an uncooperative player and lodged a rather vocal protest.

“Now just a minute!” Hockert sputtered angrily and he waved a large hand in the air, nearly knocking his thick glasses from his face. “I insist that you let me finish, and I am not finished!”

 _Oh yes you are_ , Solo thought grimly. If he could, he would have dragged the man off the stand to preserve the open door that McKinney had pried open. As it was, he could only sit and watch while Yi Chun sided with Dr. Hockert.

Yi Chun stared impassively at Mr. McKinney. “As we are not constrained by formal trial procedural rules, Dr. Hockert may answer the question to his satisfaction.” Though his mouth had not moved, the physician’s expression nonetheless, conveyed a triumphant smirk for McKinney that Napoleon instantly recognized as being dangerous. Dr. Hockert’s arrogance had returned.

The disgruntled doctor had learned a thing or two from Mr. McKinney on how to play the game. He looked directly at the board members and, ignoring McKinney, spoke in his most authoritative voice. “You have already asked me extensive questions on how I performed the autopsy on Dr. Phoenix‘s body. It was a standard professional autopsy. My findings of Dr. Phoenix’s blood, chest, and abdomen document the absence of anything that could have been a cause of death. Toxicological screens revealed nothing abnormal. Other than what was done to this man’s face, there was no other signs of physical trauma. You have in your hands photographs of the deceased’s face. The swelling and bruising document the blow to his lower jaw that Mr. Solo here delivered; with such force, I might add, as to break the man’s jaw. There is no other trauma, illness, or congenital defect conclusively proving or that could be reasonably inferred to be the cause of death. In my expert opinion, Mr. Solo’s blow hyper-extended the neck of an unarmed old man, thus killing him.”

The gruesome finality of that statement descended upon the courtroom like a black shroud. It enveloped Napoleon’s soul, leaving him with a sense that he had indeed, come to the end of his career as he‘d known it. McKinney had done his best, but the doctor’s words had condemned him, and not only in front of the board members deciding his fate, but in front of his colleagues who would no doubt, render their own judgment.

“Thank you Dr. Hockert for your testimony today. Yi Chun looked about. “Is there anything further for this witness?”  
  
“I have nothing further,” McKinney replied. Rolf and Witherspoon replied in the negative as well.

“Dr. Hockert, you are dismissed.” Dr. Hockert lumbered out of the too-small chair and removed himself from the stifling courtroom without looking at either Solo or McKinney.

The board members were whispering among themselves as Alistair McKinney walked back to Solo’s table and sat down. He leaned over and spoke to his client in a low voice. “Letting Hockert have the last word hurt us.” Solo raised an eyebrow.

“Us? Why am I the only one bleeding here?” A sardonic smile accompanied the words into which Solo forced a light tone.

“It’s not over.”

Napoleon sighed, feeling ambivalent about having to testify next. It was his moment, as McKinney had stated, to shine as a star, not with artful manipulation, but with the truth. He was to drop all artifices and become painfully transparent in a way anathema to Solo’s nature. Well as much as it had distressed him, he’d done it during the first phase; he supposed he would have to do it again though he didn‘t see much point to it other than not letting the hours he‘d worked with McKinney in preparation go to waste.

  
*******

LaGuardia Airport, NYC

Gianni Botticelli sat behind the wheel of a cab, waiting at the end of a long line of taxis at New York’s LaGuardia airport. Botticelli was chain smoking, had been ever since he’d received a call from his THRUSH handler about an emergency job. It wasn’t that he had never killed anyone before and was nervous about the prospect. Back in the Old Country he’d taken plenty of human lives when he hadn’t even been paid to do it - and THRUSH paid well. They also repaid in kind if the job wasn’t done well or right.

After he’d spoken with Beams and had agreed to do the job, he’d been waiting for what seemed like hours. He had to pay close attention to the faces to find his target and once he‘d spotted him, things would have to go like a well-choreographed ballet. There could be no music on the radio, no chatting with the other cabbies, no distractions whatsoever. So Gianni smoked, every now and then glancing down at the photograph of one Arnold Archer he’d been given. His hand holding the cigarette was on auto-pilot, raising it up to his mouth to take a drag and then down again. He’d rolled down the driver’s side window but even the cigarette smoke seemed reluctant to waft out and mingle in the noise, heat and pollution of too many people and too many vehicles in the covered transportation area.

Botticelli scanned the moving throngs of newly arrived passengers. They were a mixed bunch of humanity. Clusters of camera-clutching tourists emerged from the exits as well as families with small children traveling together, college students, couples and harried-looking businessmen in dark-colored suits. Some stood around looking lost while most scurried about after various modes of transportation. The more well-heeled businessmen strode with casual authority over to the waiting line of chauffeured-driven limousines. Those on tighter purse strings made their precarious way across the street, through the gauntlet of passing passenger vans, cars, and limos until they reached the taxi stand on the other side.

This was an area characterized by lots of noise and motion. Gianni Botticelli grinned. The controlled chaos would provide the perfect setting for a collision between a speeding vehicle and an unwary pedestrian. He just had to ensure his own clear and free escape after the deed was done.

Suddenly, Botticelli’s eyes narrowed and he clutched at the photo. His gaze moved from it to the figure of a young man across the walkway wearing a grey suit and back again. He grinned in delight, showing yellowed-crooked teeth. There he was! The young, U.N.C.L.E. fool with his handsome All-American looks, carrying his luggage and looking half-asleep, was about to make an unexpected appearance at St. Peter’s pearly gates. Botticelli covertly took out his THRUSH Communicator and gave the signal. “Redsky at night. Redsky at night.”

The device crackled to life and a tinny voice that sounded far answered, “Redrover coming over. Redrover coming over.” The voice belonged to another THRUSHIE who was actually located just around the corner in a large delivery truck. Unlike Botticelli, the driver had not been stationed in place for over-long as his parked delivery truck would have been too conspicuous. But he was ready.

Archer was making his own mad dash across the bustling breezeway - headed towards the other area where reserved hired sedans waited, oblivious to the awaiting danger. With a grunt Botticelli flicked the cigarette butt out the window and pulled his taxi out. Archer must not be allowed to reach the safety of the U.N.C.L.E. car that had been sent to take him to NY Headquarters.

Archer was mid-way across the roadway - a lone figure out in front. Thirty-seconds later the U.N.C.L.E. agent was in Botticelli’s path. Botticelli’s taxi was coming down the street, making a slow approach in a non-alerting fashion. When he was approximately six feet away from his intended victim, instead of coming to a stop to allow the man to cross, Botticelli suddenly pressed the accelerator hard, gunning the engine like a roaring beast.

Too late, Archer perceived the danger and his mind performed the split-second analysis to find a way of escape. Unfortunately, even Archer with his athlete-level of physical fitness could not prevail over the well-orchestrated trap.

On simultaneous cue, the white delivery truck had came barreling around the corner, instantly boxing in Archer and cutting off his avenue of escape.   
In the blink of an eye it was over, but not before Botticelli read the fear in the horror-stricken eyes. There was a loud satisfying thud as Archer’s body collided with the speeding taxi, flew up and over the cab just as Beams had imagined. A woman’s high-pitched scream pierced the air. “Oh my God!” A man’s voice yelled.

As for Botticelli, the THRUSH thug would have to savor that solid sound of his cab hitting the body later. Right now, he barely had time to glimpse from his rearview mirror, Archer’s crumpled body lying unmoving in a broken heap. The luggage the hapless agent had been carrying had been ripped from his hands. The bags had gone flying into the air. The clasps of one had burst completely apart sending articles of Archer’s clothing and toiletries raining down upon the dirty asphalt.

Archer lay in a pool of blood, still as a corpse, amongst the scattered clothing. As for Botticelli, he never saw the crowd of people gather around the bleeding agent with shocked faces and frantically waving hands. He didn’t see the driver of the waiting U.N.C.L.E. car leap out and summon help via his communicator pen - he was too busy speeding away to the place where he would promptly ditch the THRUSH cab with its false license plates and make good his escape. Not yet to safety, he was already thinking of the many ways he would spend the payment Agent Beams had promised him. Chuckling, Botticelli left the sad scene behind him.

Mission accomplished.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delayed posting. Despite her advanced age of 104, my grandmother was in perfect health and sound mind until she fell and broke her hip a week ago. Unfortunately, despite having come through surgery with flying colors, she died suddenly the day she was supposed to be discharged from the hospital. I was away attending to family business.
> 
> RIP GrandmaD.

*******

“Mr. Solo, you are without doubt the most exasperating trial client I’ve had in years!”

Solo looked at McKinney and allowed a bit of the Solo good humor to come through. “You’ve been an U.N.C.L.E. attorney since 1957, I’m the only trial client you‘ve had in years.”

“Alexander Waverly appointed me as your attorney with the full expectation that I would use my best legal knowledge and strategy to get you out of your current difficulties. This is not it!”

Alistair McKinney was not a happy man. Napoleon had come to a decision that while he would answer the board members’ questions because he had no other choice, he would not answer the carefully scripted questions that McKinney had forced him to go over with meticulous detail. Aside from the fact that it all seemed so pointless in light of the damning autopsy report and subsequent testimony by Dr. Hockert, Napoleon’s keen instincts were telling him that this was an instance where less was more. There was danger in saying too much. Napoleon recognized that his emotions were too close to the surface. If the right buttons were pushed he could easily slip over the slope that would lead to an disastrous admission that he was in love with his Russian partner and it was that love that had put the devastating strength behind the killer blow.

Time had run out and the moment Solo had dreaded the most was at hand.   
McKinney opened his mouth, ready to persuade Napoleon, but Solo looked at him with intense gravity, cutting him off before he could get a word out. “Trust me. You’ve asked me to trust you and I do. But now I need you to trust me.”

McKinney pursed his aristocratic lips together as if holding his tongue silent by sheer force of will.

Yi Chun turned dark, serious eyes upon Napoleon Solo. “Mr. Solo, this board would like to hear testimony from you now. According to procedural rules to which you have been advised, you have the right to refuse to make a statement on your behalf, however, you do not have the right to refuse to answer questions from the board. Are you ready to answer questions from this board?”

Napoleon cleared this throat. “Yes.”

“Very well. Please take a seat at the witness stand. I remind you that even though you are not under oath, your answers are expected to be truthful in all respects.”

Once again, under the weight of a roomful of staring onlookers, Napoleon walked over to the stand and sat down in the chair with a great deal of dignity.

“Very well Mr. Solo, do you have anything you would like to say for the record concerning your encounter with Dr. Phoenix? Stewart Rolf asked.

“No, I do not.”

The observers muttered noisily and for a moment, the U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC representative looked taken aback. There was a stunned, awkward silence before Rolf asked, “You wish to proceed directly with questions from this board?”

“Yes. If you don’t mind,” Solo replied quietly. He glanced over at McKinney and found the man regarding him with his patented, shrewd, calculating look.

“Very well, Mr. Solo. You are within your rights,” Yi Chun affirmed.  
Napoleon turned his attention back to the board members and waited apprehensively for the grueling, condemning questions.

Solo had surprised the board members who, truth be told, had to a man taken it for granted that the U.N.C.L.E. CEA would make an impressive, impassioned speech on his own behalf. They were caught off guard when no such speech was forthcoming, but in this day full of twists and turns, the board had a surprise of its own for Napoleon Solo and it was Stewart Rolf who delivered it.

The senior man from Washington DC spoke and when he did he asked one and only one question: “Mr. Solo, when you punched Dr. Phoenix in the face, was it your intention to kill him?”

He supposed it was inevitable that his mind would replay that scene for him at the moment of being asked such a crucial question. Coldness wrapped itself around his heart at seeing that decrepit visage with the high, hollow cheekbones, maniacal eyes - face grinning like some death skull. How could he not see again the pale, lifeless hand of the man he loved, reaching in vain for the life that was being taken from him beneath the chocking weight of dirty earth? In that split second Napoleon relived the red veil of rage that had come upon him then.

What had been his intention? He’d asked himself that particular question many times and the answer was still the same - he hadn’t been thinking of anything then. He’d seen a threat and he’d stopped it. Period.  
  
Napoleon did not hesitate when he answered from the rational, analytical part of himself that Kuryakin respected and McKinney expected. It was truth that resided mostly in his head, but it was truth nonetheless. Solo faced the board head-on. “No.”

Solo waited for the next question, but to his amazement Yi Chun dismissed him saying, “That is all, Mr. Solo. If you have nothing more to add to this Inquest then you may step down.”

That was it. The dread of anticipating this phase of the Inquest was over and all there was left was the wait to hear the board’s decision. A strange emptiness settled upon Napoleon and he returned to the table and resumed his seat next to McKinney. Solo glanced sideways at his attorney, trying to gauge the man’s mood. He was rewarded with a grudging nod of approval.

As he had at the conclusion of the first phase, Yi Chun read from his procedural notes and declared the second phase ready for adjournment.  
“We will consider all evidence before rendering a finding of fact, opinion and recommendation.” With that, the board members gathered their papers and rose from their chairs. Everyone else did likewise.

There was a dignified silence as the men who held Solo’s fate in their hands departed the room. Unlike the at the end of the first phase, there was no simultaneous eruption of conversation from the observers. No press of colleagues surrounded Napoleon, clapping him on the back. There were no shouts from well-wishers. Even Solo’s detractors declined to vocalize an opinion on what had transpired. It was to Solo like the silence of a funeral parlor. And how appropriate if what they had witnessed was the death of his career. Napoleon was long past annoyed with himself over the constant, uncharacteristic pessimistic thoughts that he just could not quell, try as he might.

The courtroom emptied out of all but Solo and McKinney. “I’ll contact you when the board members are ready,” McKinney advised. Solo stuck out his hand towards McKinney, giving the man’s hand a firm shake. “Whatever happens, I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Napoleon said sincerely.

McKinney returned the handshake and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Solo. Mostly.”

  
*******

“That will be all, Miss Rogers. Thank you.” Alexander Waverly turned back around and impatiently placed the folder containing Agent Arnold Archer’s last transmission on the Ibiza Affair back atop the pile of other reports to be dealt with. Archer was very late for his appointment and Waverly was more inclined to be annoyed than worried.

He held his pipe in one hand, absently puffing on it, while with the fingers of the other he thrummed the desktop and allowed his mind to consider other matters: chiefly, the current status of his plan to use an Inquest to both publicly clear his appointed heir of any professional wrong-doing which would later prevent him from becoming his successor, and its use as a means to flush out the specter of the threat to the U.N.C.L.E. organization vis-a-vis himself. Thus far, the first objective had been partially met with the favorable verdict the board members had returned in the first matter regarding the allegation of dereliction of duty.

As for the second matter revolving around the death of Dr. Phoenix, he had been advised some time ago that the board members had adjourned for deliberations. Would the board members once again return a favorable verdict? What the devil would his next move be if they did not?

Waverly furrowed his eyebrows. He had put all of his faith in Napoleon Solo and what he believed would be his CEA’s ability to professionally survive the Inquest. He felt his annoyance growing again every time he contemplated that “other” matter the Inquest had inadvertently brought to light. Waverly thought he had known all there was to know about Napoleon Solo. It hadn't taken him long to recognize in Solo, even as a brand-new agent, his extraordinary skills from his physical prowess, mental agility, to his strength of character.

But Waverly was also a man who looked with both eyes wide open. Yes, Solo was a man of many strengths but the handsome Italian-American was not without some weaknesses as well. Waverly thought he knew them all; however, concerning the almost symbiotic relationship between Solo and Kuryakin, he had underestimated the sharpness of that double-edge sword and just how deeply it cut. Assuming Napoleon Solo emerged from this very public administrative proceeding unscathed professionally, sooner or later Waverly knew he would have to deal with the question of the exact nature of the relationship between his top agent and his partner.

Then there was the second objective. On this subject Waverly had, thus far, no reason to boast of any obvious success. The open testimony concerning his professional indiscretion in Czechoslovakia, aside from being the source of his own public debasement, had not provoked Eugen Grunewald, who was THRUSH’s tool, into revealing himself as he had calculated. Yet Waverly gamely clung to the soundness of his plan with no less surety than he’d felt in his very bones upon its inception.

Those same bones were treacherously neutral now.

While he was convinced that Grunewald was working with THRUSH, he still had yet to discover whether or not Dieter Grunewald’s son himself had infiltrated the U.N.C.L.E. ranks, or had THRUSH planted an entirely different individual to be the mole. If it were Grunewald behind the scenes, cleverly pulling the strings of an U.N.C.L.E. infiltrator, then he had yet to rule out Agents Beams and Archer as members of the conspiracy.

Waverly was on a quest to uncover the answer. If Eugen Grunewald had indeed infiltrated the U.N.C.L.E. ranks, he’d find him and he had one more crucial clue in which to do it. As soon as he’d acquired the peculiar bit of intelligence from his old British Intelligence colleague, Edward Whitt, he’d ordered a complete world-wide sweep of the health records for every U.N.C.L.E. male enforcement agent under the age of forty. He was singularly focused on learning one thing: Did any have the peculiar eye anomaly known as heterochromia iridis?

At the New York U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Dr. Greenberg had had his staff pull all of the medical records for all the enforcement agents posted there. Greenberg had personally combed through them all, although he had told Waverly straight away that he was certainly well-acquainted with the physical attributes of the men and women whose health he was responsible for maintaining and that none had that condition. In the end, he’d done what he’d been asked and furnished Waverly with an obligatory but negative report.

Waverly’s bushy winged eyebrows drew together in a frown. He was still waiting for reports from various offices throughout the world, including the Washington DC office. There wasn’t much he could do through time and distance to hurry the process along. In the meantime, there were other fires in the world to be put out.

However, before he could deal with some of the other threats to world stability brewing on the horizon, Lisa Rogers suddenly appeared in the doorway, a concerned expression on her sensual face.

“Mr. Waverly, I’ve just been informed by Medical that Agent Archer was injured in an accident at LaGuardia. He was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital in Flushing where the doctors there stabilized him enough to transfer down here to U.N.C.L.E. Medical.” She paused. “He’s believed to have sustained serious injuries,” Rogers somberly added.

Waverly started, momentarily stunned by this ill-news. “I take it it was not a plane crash? Surely I would have already heard if there had been such a catastrophe.”

“Early reports say he was struck by a speeding vehicle, Sir.”

Waverly’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Such an event could have been pure accident - a man simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, yet it seemed to him a bit too coincidental, too convenient, that Archer would be taken out on his way to an interview with Number One, Section One of U.N.C.L.E. New York. If Archer was the victim of a THRUSH assassination plot, just what was it the enemy wanted kept quiet? Waverly made up his mind to find out the prognosis for the injured agent.

“Miss Rogers, hold my calls please. I’m going down to Medical to await Mr. Archer’s arrival. Oh, and find out if anyone had notified his command of his…misfortune. If not, I want this kept under wraps for now. A complete communications blackout on the matter until I say otherwise. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Waverly.” Rogers whirled smartly on her black high-heeled pumps.

With regret, Waverly extinguished his pipe, rose from his chair and started walking purposely towards the infirmary.

*******

Napoleon Solo walked the U.N.C.L.E. halls with a casualness he did not feel. He’d been walking those halls for quite some time now for he could not bring himself to wait out the verdict alone in his office as he had the first time, nor could he bring himself to go to the hospitalized Illya’s bedside and burden his partner with his worries. And he was plenty worried.

McKinney had done his best to do exactly what he had promised. In Solo’s opinion, the shrewd attorney had done that and a bit more. While McKinney could neither change the autopsy tests and procedures, he certainly had challenged Dr. Hockert’s conclusion by exposing his bias and questionable actions. The question was, had it been enough to satisfy the board members that Solo had not intentionally murdered the old scientist?

Solo didn’t think so. At the end of the day, the one thing Dr. Hockert had been adamant about was that Dr. Phoenix’ had suffered no other trauma, illness, or congenital defect that could reasonably be inferred as the cause of death. _“Hangman’s Fracture. The victim died of Hangman’s Fracture.”_ Solo heard the accusatory phantom voice in his head and his imagination supplied the condemning looks by the board members for his failure to comply with Rules of Engagement that would have required him to bring in alive, an unarmed, high-level enemy.

So preoccupied with his morose thoughts was he that he did not see the shorter, stout figure of his boss making his way down the same hallway until he had nearly collided with the Old Man. At the last second, awareness of who was in front of him came and along with it, the humiliation that still smoldered deep within his proud heart at the sight of his boss.

Solo was still in suspended status, allowed to walk these hallowed halls only because he’d been hauled in front of an Inquest. Thus far he’d managed to avoid having direct contact with Mr. Waverly - procedural rules frowned on direct contact with the Convening Authority and he‘d been all too glad to stay out of the Old Man‘s way. But now he had practically walked right into him and they were engaged in an awkward dance, each man trying to move out of the way of the other and accomplishing exactly the opposite. The dance came to a halt when Waverly stood his ground and Solo nimbly sidestepped around him. “Ah, excuse me, Sir,” Solo said quickly. Solo looked again at Waverly‘s face. Uh oh. Where’s the fire? Waverly usually had that particular focused look on his face when there had been a security breech at Headquarters.

Solo couldn’t contain his natural curiosity and professional concern. “Where’s the trouble, Sir?”

For a moment, Napoleon didn’t think Waverly would answer him. The shrewd, pale gray eyes swept over him, assessing him in critically. “Medical,” came the succinct reply.

Medical? Napoleon’s heart dropped to his stomach. Was it Illya? Had his partner taken a drastic turn for the worse? Without even thinking, Napoleon changed directions and started walking alongside of Mr. Waverly.

Waverly didn’t look at him when he spoke the words that instantly calmed Napoleon’s thundering heart, nearly halting him in his tracks. “You can relax Mr. Solo. This matter does not concern Mr. Kuryakin.”

Relived, Napoleon’s natural curiosity was heightened. “May I ask who the matter concerns?”

“You may ask, Mr. Solo and had you not inconvenienced yourself with a suspension I would discuss the matter with you.” The perceived rebuke stung and had Napoleon’s nerves not already been somewhat raw he would have heard the touch of humor overlaid with a genuine regret in Waverly’s voice.

Instead, Napoleon stiffened and replied rather formally, “My apologies, Sir.” Solo glanced at his wristwatch, “I’d better head back now. I don’t want to keep the board members waiting.”

“Ah yes, the board members,” Waverly said as if he had forgotten the reason for Napoleon Solo’s presence here at Headquarters. Waverly stopped walking long enough to look his heir apparent in the eye. “Good luck to you, Mr. Solo.” He held out his hand and Solo automatically took it in his own and shook it.

“Thank you, Sir.” Much to his surprise, Solo felt a lessening of the residual hard feelings melt away and that he meant it. As he headed in the opposite direction, optimism flared in his heart and he picked up his pace. He’d go back in that courtroom and get that favorable verdict. Then he would put the whole ugly Inquest behind him. After that he’d concentrate on getting his partner well again and get back to the business of preserving peace and stability in the world.

Solo walked off with a spring in his step that was much more indicative of his old, invincible, optimistic self and not the somber, reflective one that had walked the halls just a short time earlier.

*******

Illya Kuryakin looked on silently as Lavina Richardson removed the thermometer from his mouth, then held the slender instrument up to read it. “One hundred two point seven degrees Fahrenheit.” Illya read her silently moving lips perfectly. The frown that crossed her regal, brown features momentarily before her lips curved into a reassuring smile was redundant. He knew his fever had increased. He had awakened tired, in pain, and disappointedly hot. While he had accepted the fact that his healing would take time, he was not expecting to feel worse after having started the course of massive antibiotics. His leg ached; a dull pain deep inside flesh and bone that the periodic dosages of pain medication only took the edge off of.

Illya sighed and tried shifting his weight in the bed. Another boring day confined between these four walls with nothing to do but wait for Napoleon to visit and bring him news of the Inquest. He knew that both April Dancer and Mark Slate had stopped by to see him, but he’d been asleep during their visit. Instead of enjoying their company, he’d awakened to the sight of their very obvious calling card.

He had cracked open bleary eyes and was startled to see the image of a bobbing hula doll car ornament filling his field of vision. Someone had rigged the doll to the overhead light over his bed so that the doll, with her plastic smile and large eyes, swayed and danced above him. He had smiled then, a genuine smile full of remembrance regarding the ornament’s origin. He and Napoleon, together with Mark and April, had acquired the doll ornament in a rare, joint mission in Hawaii that had ended rather humorously and unexpectedly. The bobbing doll had become a running joke amongst the four friends in the aftermath. It was their tradition that the bobbing hula doll went to whomever of the four had the misfortune to be hospitalized without their partner. As April had been the last recipient, Illya knew the car ornament had come from her.

But that was not all the pair had left. On his nightstand he had found a stack of various scientific journals. He didn’t doubt that those had come from Mark and he was extremely grateful for his thoughtfulness. Right now, however, he’d give anything for Napoleon to come through the door, and if not Napoleon, April or Mark.

Nurse Richardson wiped his sweaty brow gently. “What time is it?” Illya closed his eyes and asked. Time seemed to pass so slowly. Nurse Richardson glanced down at her watch and opened her mouth to answer when suddenly, there came a loud commotion going on somewhere beyond the doors to his room. A look of alert anticipation crossed Richardson’s face. Seconds later, an intercom crackled to life and an urgent-sounding voice announced an emergency medical code.  
  
Richardson sprang into action. Snatching up her tray in one hand, she patted Illya’s good leg with the other and announced that she had to go. “As soon as I can I’ll bring you some more ice chips,” she added hurriedly before departing the room, taking her pleasantness and dignified calm with her.

Illya was once again alone. He couldn’t help but wonder at the identity and circumstances of the newest emergency patient. Whoever it was, he or she was not having a very good day, Illya thought, then shrugged. It was the risks all who worked for U.N.C.L.E. assumed, but that didn’t keep him from breathing easier knowing it couldn’t be Napoleon who had been hurt. He didn’t want to think that something bad had happened to either Mark Slate or April Dancer either, for ironically, he had few friends in an organization where he worked alongside his colleagues to advance the same noble goals and he didn‘t want to lose a single one.

He could not help but wish the unknown injured person well, especially if he or she was an enforcement agent. _From the sound of it, you may be here much longer than I, my friend._ Illya closed his eyes and concentrated on making his body well by sheer force of will, having no idea that the injured person in question had once jumped into a 12-foot pit and dug alongside Napoleon with his bare hands to save his life.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure miss the old way fandom used to be.   
> That is all.

*******

_Clamp…another unit of o negative... I found another bleeder… Pressures dropping…He’s in V-tach…_

Dr. Greenberg’s trauma team worked with intense, focus-driven purpose over the injured enforcement agent. Instruments were deftly passed from nurse to surgeon. The nurse expertly handled the tools while the surgeon’s commands were anticipated and carried out with the high-degree of professionalism that had saved the life of more than one U.N.C.L.E. agent.

Archer would require all of their skill and some of his own brand of luck and stubbornness to survive the catalogue of injuries the impact of the automobile had wrought. So far he had lost his spleen and the jagged end of a broken rib had given him a hemothorax injury when the sharp end had jabbed through a lung. Archer had also sustained a hairline skull fracture, a broken pelvis and dislocated hip.

The ambulance, followed by the U.N.C.L.E. agent sent to meet him at the airport, had delivered Archer into the care of the U.N.C.L.E. medical staff. Upon his arrival, Archer’s vital signs had been good, but while he was being prepped for surgery he suddenly took a turn for the worse. It had taken quite a few tense minutes before Doctors Greenberg and Young were ready to take the severely injured agent to surgery.

Dr. Greenberg sighed and thought about the day when he would retire from U.N.C.L.E. and go back to taking care of old men and squalling babies in some nice, cushy private practice. He entertained that thought for exactly half a minute before dismissing it.

He knew that his patient had been run down by a car while exiting the airport, but nothing more. What he did know for sure was that the men and women of U.N.C.L.E. willingly put their lives on the line to ensure that others could live in peace. The young agent fighting for his life was one such man and as long as U.N.C.L.E. continued to employ them in the good fight, sooner or later, some would require his services. No, the retired life was not for him.

Mentally blocking out all other concerns, Greenberg applied himself to the challenge of putting the broken body that lay before him back together again.

*******   
  
Hours later, Napoleon paused just outside of the door to the courtroom. More than anything, he wanted to open the door and see the board members sitting there in place, ready to deliver the verdict that would finally allow him to put the whole nasty business of Dr. Phoenix’s demise behind him. But there was little chance that the members would be there and ready to render a verdict and he knew it. Just when he was about to enter the room he heard the click-clacking of high-heeled shoes approaching down the corridor.

By the sound of it, the stride shortened; the footsteps sounded softer until they stopped somewhere behind him.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon reluctantly turned then found himself looking into a familiar and definitely friendly face. “Miss ah…Stevenson, what are you doing here? Hopefully not looking for adventure beyond the hazards of Portuguese translations?” Solo’s smile was genuine, yet he eyed the excitement hungry woman with a wary eye and wondered just what her agenda was.

“It’s Mandy, Napoleon. Remember?” She admonished, her intelligent brown eyes, magnified by the thick glasses she wore, warm with concern. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about this business with the Inquest and all. I hope everything turns out well for you.”

“Thank you, Mandy.” Napoleon smiled politely at the woman who once longed for adventure past the cloistered walls of the U.N.C.L.E. translation section.

“I think all of this is perfectly ridiculous. Everyone knows that you are the best agent U.N.C.L.E. has ever had!” she declared earnestly.

Napoleon shrugged not really wanting to discuss the situation. “Even the very best agents have their bad days,” he remarked casually.

Mandy looked dubiously at Napoleon. “Not you,” she declared in the fashion that only the loyal and naive can. “Now if you don’t mind me doing one last imitation of an observant agent, I’d like to say that you look like you could use a bite to eat. I have some absolutely _out-of-this-world_ vegetable and feta empanadas in my office and I‘d rather not have to eat them all by myself.” The mischievous light in Mandy’s eyes made it clear that she’d have no problem doing just that; she was just being kind.

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak - a polite declination of the invitation ready to roll off his tongue - when Mandy tucked her arm under his and proceeded to pull him along next to her. “And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Napoleon glanced back at the door to the courtroom and thought, ‘why not?’ as he simultaneously allowed himself to be pulled along.

*******

Napoleon wiped his mouth after having eaten his last empanada and sat back feeling surprisingly contented. He had not minded either the food or Mandy Stevenson’s company as much as he had assumed he would. It helped that Mandy was…well, Mandy, for he had no desire to fend off the attentions of some of the other women in U.N.C.L.E., some who were quite stunningly beautiful and were still competing amongst themselves to become Mrs. Napoleon Solo.

Mandy was in the category of women who appealed to Solo as a sister. She was a socially awkward innocent who aroused in him no thoughts of debauchery. It helped as well that in their interactions, Mandy had no delusions of siren seduction. Napoleon to her was as a big brother - handsome, wise and respectful.

Mandy had laid out the empanadas on a single plate, then tore the one napkin she had in half - she had not anticipated sharing her afternoon snack when she’d reported to work that morning. There was a vending machine located just down the hall and she quickly returned with two paper cups of steaming coffee.

“There. Not exactly a feast, I think you’ll like these all the same,” she said.

Suddenly Napoleon felt ravenous and to his surprise, the empanadas were the most delicious thing he could recall eating in quite awhile. “These are delicious.”

“They’re almost as good as the ones I make,” Mandy had enthused boldly, then she smiled an awkward, shy smile. If she noticed that Napoleon had consumed three empanadas to her one, she spoke nothing of it. Rather she had kept up a steady stream of witty conversation, each topic opening up with, “Remember when…”

There in the bowels of the library-like atmosphere of the U.N.C.L.E. language translation section, Napoleon passed a pleasant hour in Mandy’s cubicle, almost forgetting the reason why he was in a part of U.N.C.L.E. he’d only infrequently visited.

Almost.

The sudden trilling noise of his communicator going off jolted him out of his temporary refuge. Napoleon removed the device from his pocket and spoke into it. “Solo here.”

It was Alistair McKinney. “Please return to the courtroom. I’ve just received word that the board members will be returning shortly.”

“I’m on my way,” Solo responded, his voice steady though his nerves felt anything but. He slowly put away his communicator before fixing a regretful gaze upon the woman. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now, the board members will be returning shortly.” He smiled charmingly at Mandy as he stood up and brushed any stray crumbs from his trousers. When he thought about the way he had originally planned on passing the time - sitting along in the courtroom - he was truly grateful for the comfortable, brief escape the U.N.C.L.E. translator had provided. “He took her hand and shook it with an exaggerated show of gallantry but there was no trace of playboy-ish humor when he looked at her with serious brown eyes. “Thank you, Mandy for the rescue. I owe you.”

“No you don’t,” Mandy replied sincerely. As she watched Solo depart she added, softly, “One good turn deserves another.”

  
********

Napoleon would have preferred that the end of the Inquest be witnessed by no one other than himself, his lawyer and the board members. However, the small courtroom’s observation gallery was now filled to capacity. The news had apparently spread like wildfire and the courtroom that had seen noticeably fewer spectators for the earlier session had nearly doubled the number of curious viewers. His fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents were packed into the area like sardines - all vying for a front row seat to what most hoped would be vindication for their friend and colleague, while the detractors among them fantasized about seeing Napoleon Solo brought down so that they could ascend the promotional ladder.

Napoleon shot his cuffs, then strolled over to the table where McKinney awaited him. The lawyer looked remarkably relaxed and confident. Napoleon leaned over and remarked softly. “If how you look is a portent of the verdict, then I better get my charge card ready to buy you the biggest, most expensive steak dinner.”

McKinney whispered back, “I don’t eat meat.”

Napoleon gave a low laugh, but it was more to cover the momentary loss for words than an expression of humor. Solo recognized that it was entirely irrational, but it was as if McKinney’s response had unintentionally, suddenly, negated his optimistic interpretation of McKinney’s demeanor.

McKinney, who was not in the business of hand holding, was oblivious to the effect his quip had had on Solo. He was optimistic. It was an optimism born from years of reaping the rewards of hard work, application of intellect, and keen attention to detail. Additionally, he had already seen Napoleon to a favorable verdict on the first matter under inquiry.

As concerned both matters, he had done his job as entrusted to by Alexander Waverly. He had not relied on his own private, obdurate belief that what the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America wanted, the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America got. And what Alexander Waverly had explicitly ordered him to do was save his heir-apparent’s career by removing any possibility of permanent damage to Solo’s unblemished record.

He had, of course, known that there was more to the case then met the eye. Waverly’s not-so-subtle suggestion that he look to the highly sensitive contents of the hidden Czechoslovakian File had confirmed that the Old Man, for all his declarations that he was the Convening Authority and as such had a duty to remain neutral, was still quite willing to manipulate from behind the scenes. It offended the lawyer’s sensibilities to have someone suggest that the board members had been instructed as to what findings of fact and conclusion should be returned - he did not for a minute believe that Alexander Waverly would stoop to corrupting the integrity of the process, even to achieve his own goals, but McKinney was no fool and neither were the appointed board members. All things considered, McKinney was confident that the matters he had responsibility for had been attended to with due diligence to ensure an outcome favorable to his client. The how’s and why’s there had ever been a need to in the first place were evidently not for him to know.

********

“The time is 1308 and the Inquest has reopened. All persons connected with the Inquest who were present when the Inquest recessed are again present.” Yi Chun spoke the familiar words that heralded the beginning of the end of Solo’s ordeal.

Yi Chun, George Witherspoon and Stewart Rolf had filed in and taken their seats, their faces impassive, their demeanor giving nothing away as to their decision. Not that Solo expected them to as he returned their steady, unreadable expressions with one of his own.

Napoleon snorted inwardly. U.N.C.L.E. required them to be many things and at times during the Inquest, he had often felt that they had all been called to merely be actors in a play. Well at last this play’s final act was about to take place. All he looked forward to doing after the final curtain calls was sharing some good news with Illya. Then after that he would seek out the Old Man and demand the answers he’d been denied.

Solo shifted in his chair and resisted the urge to look behind him at the spectators. The chatter from the observation area had lowered in volume to a dull roar before abruptly dying out. There were no more stray comments filtering down, no more scrapping noises as chairs were repositioned closer in order to accommodate yet one more witness. There was complete silence.

The temperature in the closed room seemed to increase to an uncomfortable level, but no one moved to adjust the thermostat.

Yi Chun rose to the full height of his diminutive stature. He looked solemnly at Napoleon Solo. “Mr. Solo, will you please rise?”   
  
Napoleon pushed back his chair and rose to his feet in one polished movement. McKinney did likewise. The silence seemed hung up in the moment, unable to be broken by spoken words and yet broken it was.

“This Board, after inquiring into all the facts and circumstances connected with the death of Dr. Mannheim Phoenix, which occasioned the inquiry, and having considered the evidence, finds as follows: That the death of Dr. Phoenix was an unjustified killing in violation of Section 14-A-11 of the U.N.C.L.E. Rules of Engagement.”

A tremendous gasp erupted in the room, but Napoleon did not hear it. The room had contracted and lurched as he struggled to mentally replay the words he’d heard, searching for some meaning other than the one intended. Napoleon stared in shocked disbelief.

Yi Chun’s voice continued to drone on, and for the first time, there was a hint of regret in the dark, almond-shaped eyes. “It is the recommendation of this Board that at the minimum, Mr. Solo be issued a letter of reprimand to remain a permanent part of his professional record. At the maximum, if the Convening Authority sees fit, this matter may be referred to civilian authorities, having proper jurisdiction, for further action. There being no other matters before this Inquest, I declare the it adjourned. Miss Zimmerman, please note the time for the record.”

In the blink of an eye it was over. Everything was over. Somewhere in a dark corner of his mind Napoleon thought he heard the maniacal victory laugh of Dr. Phoenix. The crazy bastard had won. Napoleon’s jaw tightened and his fists imperceptibly clenched when he thought about how that single encounter had been the catalyst for the destruction of his career as an enforcement agent. In a single moment in time he had lost control of himself, disregarded all of his discipline and training the moment he’d seen how Illya had apparently suffered and died at Phoenix’s hands and now this was the day that Phoenix, like his namesake, rose in triumph over him.

Napoleon felt sick. True enough, he had, throughout the Inquest, at times questioned Alexander Waverly’s motives and methods in subjecting him to such a humiliating, public ordeal, but deep down inside he had maintained his belief that the Old Man knew what he was doing when he set the wheels in motion, forcing him to fight for his career. He’d clung to and nurtured the belief that it was for an unknown, but good, cause and that vindication lay at the end of it all. What could he say now when all he saw was the black mark that would forever flaw his record and make him ineligible for the goal of one day being named Number One, Section One of U.N.C.L.E. New York?

At that moment, Napoleon Solo had never experienced such a depth of betrayal - a feeling he was trying desperately to reconcile with his own deeply ingrained instinct to keep fighting for his career; to fight to the bitter end.

What then if this was the bitter end? Napoleon fought to keep from displaying his swirling emotions in a mind that was still in shock. He did not want to think about the apparent fact that the sacrifices he had made for U.N.C.L.E. counted for nothing. He could not stop the thoughts from flooding his mind of all of the years when Waverly had singled him out to take on missions more dangerous and impossible then the last, and all of the times when he alone, and then later paired with Illya, had endured deprivation, serious injury, even mental and physical torture all to save the lives of innocents and hold at bay the forces of tyranny and world instability. He had given his all, but in the end he had not given them his love for Illya Kuryakin over Section 14-A-A-11 Rules of Engagement that required that Dr. Phoenix be brought in alive for interrogation. He had seen what he thought was Illya’s buried, dead body and Dr. Phoenix had met his maker at the end of his fist.

Between them all they had shed the blood of many an enemy yet these men dared sit in judgment of him! To what end had Waverly seen fit to drag him through this public spectacle? And how had he for a moment, allowed himself to spend one sleepless night of self-condemnation over sending the diabolical scientist to different plane of existence when he had not even done so with malice aforethought? He’d asked himself a thousand times would he do anything different were the same scene before him now and the answer had always been “no”. It was still “no” even though his mind could barely process the possibility, vague though it was, that it could become a matter for a civilian court. Phoenix could, from beyond the grave, send him to jail and Alexander Waverly had made that possible. Napoleon shook his head, trying to stave off the veil of anger overtaking him at the chaotic thoughts that dripped like acid upon his soul.

Beside him and barely within his notice, McKinney was speaking and his voice was oh so very tight and unlike any Napoleon had ever heard coming from him. “Is this opinion unanimous or is there a minority finding?” McKinney queried.

“It was a difficult decision, but yes, it was unanimous.” Li Chun paused,   
“You are dismissed.” The regretful tone was as much as Li Chun would reveal as to his personal feelings. He turned and proceeded to exit with Rolf following directly behind, and Witherspoon bringing up the rear. Before Witherspoon stepped down, he paused and gave Napoleon a sympathetic look that Solo could scarcely abide.

McKinney pursed his lips and stood watching in silence as the board members shuffled out of the room via their private entrance. When they had departed he turned his attention to studying the granite profile of the man standing still as a statute. Behind them, the shock-induced silence of the observers was beginning to wear off and the strains of whispered reactions could be heard. The noise grew louder as a cacophony of male and female voices burst forth without restraint, some expressing dismay or disbelief, one or two sounding more like smug, “I told you so ’s.”

Napoleon felt the oppressive press of too many people approaching like a wall of human flesh desiring to surround him. He whirled around to face them with a detached calm, inwardly desiring to send his colleagues on their way before they could get to close and read in his eyes his utter devastation and confusion over this outcome. Napoleon cleared his throat before addressing them. “Well, clearly this isn’t my best day,” he remarked dryly. “Nonetheless, thank you all for the show of support - I won’t forget it. Now if you‘ll excuse me, I would like to speak to my attorney.”

He smiled the famous Solo smile, and his tone was warm but there was a coldness to the gaze that looked out amongst the familiar faces, separating friend from foe. No, he wouldn’t forget those who took no joy in seeing him brought to professional ruin, nor would he forget those few who had allowed gleeful expression for their long-restrained jealously. Napoleon’s gaze fell upon certain individuals. Whatever it was they saw in Napoleon’s hard stare caused them to take a hasty step backwards before prudently taking their leave.

After a moment, the others started to disperse as well. The crowd parted and there before Napoleon stood two trusted and valued friends as well as colleagues. April Dancer and Mark Slate approached. Both looked warily at Napoleon as though unsure if they could and should take the proceeding’s outcome at face value. They, like Napoleon, understood that no one was privy to all information all of the time. If this was nothing more than an elaborate scheme to achieve some other purpose, then that was one thing. If it were not…

The usually cheerful Brit, who now looked somber and subdued, spoke up first. He was direct and to the point. “Napoleon, what the hell is going on?” he asked, keeping his voice down low.

Napoleon felt the flush upon his face and he shrugged. “Uh…I believe my career just got flushed down the toilet.” He made a mock flushing sound and whirling gesture with his hand.

April’s bright eyes flashed. “Are you saying this is for real? That this isn’t just a clever, but bizarre trap to make some enemy think you’ve been sidelined in disgrace?” she hissed.

Napoleon winced and hesitated for the briefest of moments. How he longed to be able to say, “Yes”. _Yes, of course it is. Why, Waverly and I conspired together in this top secret plot to bring down Thrush._

But he could not do it. He could not say those words because Alexander Waverly had never come to him except to speak to him with censure and disappointment in his voice starting from the time Napoleon had been debriefed at the conclusion of the Masked Ball Affair. The entire matter could have been settled between them, but Waverly had chosen to throw him to the wolves and Waverly had never once hinted to him that the Inquest was anything but what it was, no matter how he tried to believe that it.

After having fully embraced the hope that his career would emerge intact only to have it dashed to pieces along with his heart, it was all he could do to give his friends an answer. “I’m afraid not,” he answered quietly. “Assuming there won’t be any civilian authority action, then I’ll be so far down on the enforcement agent promotion ladder that I’ll be stuck doing milk runs for the two of you. And Illya…” Napoleon stopped. When Illya got better he’d need a new partner. He would need someone who had the trust and confidence of Mr. Waverly; someone whose courage and skills matched the ones the tough, slight Russian possessed; someone who would sacrifice his own life without hesitation if his partner had to in order to keep Illya alive.

Napoleon closed his eyes, feeling as though he had let Illya down. It was not his ego that caused him to despair. It was only the certain knowledge that no one would ever watch Illya’s back the way he would.

“Illya doesn’t need to look for a partner. He bloody well has one - the best,” Mark stated firmly.

“That’s right,” April affirmed, though her face reflected the unmistakable look of one who had not quite come to terms with the fact that Napoleon had not dismissed the Inquest and the resultant verdict as some sort of staged ruse.

“Thanks. Both of you. I really do mean that, but right now, I just don’t know what the Fates have in store for me,” Napoleon replied wearily. He glanced down at McKinney who was strumming his fingers upon the table, looking rather impatient.

April and Mark followed Napoleon’s gaze and then April leaned in close and gave Napoleon a brief hug. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Mark, who was as demonstrative a soul as Napoleon’s partner, Illya was not, clapped him on the back warmly.

“Chin up, Solo. This is a tough break but we’ll figure it out.”

“Well, if you come up with any suggestions I’d be glad to entertain them,” Napoleon answered quietly.

“Precisely. Now if you will excuse us, Mr. Solo and I need to talk,” McKinney interjected.

April and Mark both glanced McKinney’s way before turning their attention back to Napoleon. “We’ll see you later,” Mark promised. April reiterated supportive sentiments and then they both exited the room.

The exodus of observers soon left the courtroom empty of all but Napoleon Solo and Alistair McKinney. Solo sighed and then pulled out his chair and sat down again. He didn’t wait for his attorney to speak first. “I know. You can’t file an appeal unless you have newly discovered facts and since you have none that leaves me wondering what’s going to happen next.

McKinney looked grim. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“If you really mean that, you’ll tell me what Mr. Waverly is really doing, starting with why exactly did he handpick you to be my attorney,” Napoleon replied, his voice deceptively mild.

McKinney’s back stiffened and his demeanor was that of a man who had just been highly insulted. “If you are suggesting that I am under the control of Mr. Waverly and that he and I engaged in a conspiracy to produce this outcome, then you are highly mistaken and that is a mistake I find most offensive.”

Napoleon sighed and ran his hand through his hair, uncaring of the disarray he was creating and maddeningly unsure if that was indeed what he wanted to insinuate. He believed that McKinney had provided the most vigorous, thorough defense. After all, McKinney was the very same attorney who had put Mr. Waverly on the stand and publicly exposed his most egregious violation of professional standards of duty.

“I apologize, Alistair.” It was one of the rare times Napoleon had called the prim and formal lawyer by his first name. “That isn’t what I meant at all. It’s just that my gut instincts tell me that there is more to this than meets the eye. Illya believes that there is some kind of threat to Mr. Waverly and that somehow he used me and the Inquest as bait for the enemy.” Napoleon’s eyes burned holes in McKinney. “Is that true? Because if it is, then I don‘t see how ruining me professionally is going to keep Mr. Waverly safe.”

Now it was McKinney’s turn to sigh. “I can not tell you what I don’t know, Mr. Solo. Even if Mr. Waverly had shared something like that with me, I have an ethical obligation to not represent a client and all the while have a different, secret agenda going on with the Convening Authority.”

Solo studied the polish on his fine Italian leather shoes for a moment before returning his gaze to McKinney. “So this is it then? I’m finished? ” he asked pensively.

“Hardly.” McKinney ‘s lip curled up as he rallied from his own professional set-back. The predatory light was once again back in the sharp, gray eyes. “I intend to call upon Mr. Waverly and at the centerpiece of my visit will be my demand that Dr. Phoenix’s remains be flown to headquarters here and a new autopsy performed based on a challenge to Dr. Hockert.”

“Hmm. You ’re going to question his competency?” Solo asked doubtfully.

“More his inability to remain impartial. Something about this case set that man off and lessoned his ability to do his job thoroughly. I want an definitive answer as to whether or not Dr. Phoenix suffered from spondylolithesis of the axis and Dr. Greenberg can do that.”

“You really think you can do this?”

“Yes. But it might take some time.”

Solo shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know if I have time. Rather, I don’t know how much time _Mr. Waverly_ has.”

McKinney paused to gather up his briefcase and stand up. “Look, Solo, you are the best at what you do. Go out there and do it. Bring me some other evidence that will clear you of a wrongful killing and I’ll get you that second bite at the apple.”

Without a backward glance, McKinney strode to the door, opened it and was gone.

  
*******


	27. Chapter 27

By 4:00 pm Illya was ready to climb out of his bed, ventilated gown, temporary leg brace and all, and trek through the U.N.C.L.E. halls looking for Napoleon. He’d tried without success to raise him on his communicator and he was fairly certain that the Board had rendered a decision hours ago. If Napoleon had gone incommunicado than it that was a sign that did not bode well for a favorable report.

Illya was restless and he knew he just couldn’t stay there and wait anymore for word on Napoleon, anxious and tethered to the bed. He might be ill, but he was not helpless. Alexander Waverly’s late morning surprise visit to his bedside had somewhat rallied him. While he was certain Mr. Waverly’s visit had occurred only because someone of significant importance to U.N.C.L.E. had been seriously injured enough to bring the Old Man himself to the infirmary for a first-hand report, his appearance at his bedside and the brief words exchanged had reminded him that he was still a Section Two enforcement agent and that the world outside was going on without him.

Against medical advice, he was trying to force himself back into that world.  
Illya reached with both hands and grasped the right side bedrail. He gritted his teeth and slowly raised himself to a sitting position. He started to pant softly, his breath quickening while his lungs annoyingly seemed unable to take in a full breath of air. He stopped for a moment while he contemplated the folly of his actions.

Just how was he planning on tracking down Napoleon? He couldn’t exactly wander the U.N.C.L.E. halls when he had neither wheelchair nor crutches handy. Could he talk someone into bringing him one or the other? He thought so. He had not seen Dr. Greenberg or Nurse Richardson since they had been called away to attend to the trauma patient and that might have afforded him a fortuitous means to an end. The nurse who had been looking after him for the last few hours was new, young, and by what he had picked up by her batting eyes and suggestive banter - clearly attracted to him.  
  
Cindy. Her name was Cindy. Illya carefully leaned over and pressed the call button. It was not long before Cindy appeared. The cheerful, pretty, young nurse was a blonde, blue-eyed beauty - just the type Napoleon preferred until the day it was not. _He_ was what Napoleon preferred now. Illya’s thoughts detoured briefly to conjure up a vision of Napoleon’s eyes. Solo’s dark eyes flashed fire and intelligence and when those eyes turned to him they were always kind. He thought of hands - those skilled hands touching him and Napoleon‘s sensual lips. Illya shivered and this time it was not induced by the persistent fever.

“Can I get something for you?” Cindy was asking. She hastened over to his side when she saw him trying to swing his legs over. “Illya - uh, Mr, Kuryakin,” she corrected herself. “You aren’t supposed to be getting out of this bed.”

Illya assumed his most pleasant, I-feel-fine expression he could muster. “I believe the precise orders are along the lines of me not putting any weight on my injured leg. If you would be so kind as to bring me a wheelchair, I will be in full compliance with the spirit of the order. Besides, a little exercise will be good for me.” He steeled himself to speak the next words which would reveal a vulnerability that he would not otherwise have spoken of. “I am having trouble getting a good night’s sleep. The sedatives give me nightmares and…and I’m afraid to go to sleep,” he added for an extra dramatic push.

It was not entirely a lie.

He hated the dreams that came when he was trying to sleep. It seemed that a doorway had been opened in his psyche ever since the old nurse had forced the medication on him.

Cindy’s blue eyes looked troubled but with Illya steadily gazing at her with that guileless expression she felt as though what he said made perfect sense. She wavered on the brink and then she fell. “All right, Mr. Kuryakin. I’ll bring you a wheelchair, just as long as you stay here.”

“I promise I won’t leave U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya muttered.

Not having heard him, she turned and left to bring back the chair.

  
*******  
  
Ten minutes and one diversion later, Illya Kuryakin was wheeling himself along the U.N.C.L.E. halls. His broken leg was supported straight out in front of him, the catheter bag was secured and the IV above his head slowly dripped saline. He was a spectacle and he knew it. He didn’t care. He was looking for Napoleon and his “sixth” sense was telling him that he was needed but that his partner was loath to come to him.

He’d already checked his office, but Napoleon was not there. He was wheeling himself in the direction of the courtroom with rapidly depleting strength. Sweat was running down his face from his exertions and he was beginning to curse his own foolish stubbornness. If he didn’t find Napoleon soon, it would be him needing a rescue and not the other way around. And what if Napoleon were no longer in the building to begin with? Illya groaned. The fever was making it hard to think as clearly as he was accustomed to. He stopped and closed his eyes for what passed as a second to him but in reality was closer to a full minute.

When Illya rallied, he reached for his communicator once more but before he could speak someone grabbed the handles of his chair and spun him around. “Just what the hell are you doing out here?” he heard an astonished, angry voice demand. It was Napoleon. Or at least Illya thought it was. His head spun, making him feel dizzy. His vision was bleary making the figure leaning over him look briefly as though he had two heads. The figure before him was wearing a suit like Napoleon’s but his hair was damp and he carried a gym bag.

When Illya’s vision cleared he could see that it was indeed Napoleon. He’d obviously gone to the gymnasium and had worked out. Illya remembered that he‘d been asked a question. “Looking for you.”

“This was a stupid stunt. There’s no way you have clearance to be here,” Napoleon chided, his tone less harsh now that he could clearly see the lengths his partner had gone to track him down. By the looks of him, Illya was paying dearly for it.

Illya looked terrible. He was pale and looked exhausted. A wave of guilt hit Napoleon. Of course Illya would track him down. He’d not answered his communicator, nor had he gone to see him. Illya would know that a decision had been rendered and he would assume the worst since he’d not come straight away to share some good news.

Illya didn‘t deny Napoleon’s charge. The blond Russian just sat in weary anticipation, willing Napoleon to answer his unasked question. But all Napoleon said was, “You’re a sight. I think we’d better get you back to your room before you’re found out.” Napoleon started pushing the chair in the direction of the infirmary.

“Napoleon,” he heard Illya’s weary voice say.

Napoleon kept walking. “We’ll be there in a minute,” he responded. Even now it was hard to tell Illya about the Board’s decision.

“Napoleon!” Illya’s voice was hard and sharp. It drew Napoleon up short.

Slowly Napoleon released the handles and stepped around to face the agitated Russian. “What happened?” Illya asked softly.

Napoleon jammed his hands into his front pockets. Nothing to do but share the bitter truth now. As much as he hated to do it, what he would hate more is to see the disillusionment rise in his partner’s eyes. He would give anything to keep Illya‘s faith in U.N.C.L.E. alive when his own had been shaken to its foundation. “They decided essentially that it was an unjustified killing. In their eyes, I’m a murderer. Unless I can prove otherwise, my career is finished.”

Illya closed his eyes briefly. He shook his head as if to wake himself from a dream and rid himself of the wave of incredulity that swept through him. Crystalline blue eyes opened and peered intently at Napoleon, searching, hoping to see evidence of something along the lines of a very bad joke.

He didn’t find it.

Illya blinked. “Excuse me, did you just say that you have been deemed a murderer by a secretly THRUSH infiltrated Inquest?” There was no hint of weariness in those words and the Russian was no longer sitting slumped in the wheelchair, but rather had pushed himself as upright as his extended leg and medical accouterments allowed.

Napoleon grimaced. “Well, you got the part right about me being judged a murderer anyway.”

“I still do not believe this. What is going on here?” Illya muttered, unknowingly echoing Mark Slates’ question of earlier. The shock and disbelief on Kuryakin’s face gave way to the more familiar, carefully schooled, neutral expression as Napoleon’s partner absorbed the news.

Napoleon’s shoulders slumped and then he shrugged. “I wish I knew.” Dark brown eyes tracked Illya’s gaze. The Russian was looking at Napoleon’s hand - the one clutching the gym bag by the handle. It was swollen and bruises were starting to form around the knuckles. Gently, Illya reached out and took Napoleon’s hand in his, inspecting the tender, bruised appendage.

“I ah…thought if I punched the bag hard enough got a little exercise on the punching bag the answer would either come to me, or at least I’d feel a hell of a lot better,” Napoleon said, sounding sheepish.

“Did it work?” Illya was regarding him with all due seriousness.

“No.”

They were both silent for a moment, each staring at the other and taking stock of the day‘s damage. It was Illya who broke the silence first. “I am sorry, Napasha,” he said softly.

“So am I.” The words seemed to hang heavy in the air a moment before Napoleon moved into action. “Let’s go,“ he said as he grabbed the handles of Illya’s wheelchair and started pushing the Russian back down the hall towards the infirmary.  
  
___________

 

They were half-way back to the infirmary when they rounded a corner and nearly collided with one Bruce Roden, acting CEA ever since Solo‘s suspension.

At six foot two, and over 200 pounds of hard muscle, Bruce was a towering, smirking wall of suited flesh. Illya could feel the sudden tightening of his partner’s hands on the wheelchair handles behind him as the forward movement halted. Even if Roden had been a stand up guy and an agent with considerable skills to match Napoleon’s own, Illya knew that no matter how pragmatic and politically savvy Solo was, his very healthy ego would have suffered an enormous blow at being forced to relinquish his job to another, even if that person had been him, Solo's very own trusted partner vice Bruce Roden.

In reality, Roden possessed none of the aforementioned qualities. Yes, the good-looking, athletic man possessed a cleverness of his own kind that had produced a certain number of impressive successes, but he was a braggart who, in Illya’s opinion, esteemed himself too highly for his merit.

Roden’s greatest weakness however, was the fact that he was an agent who had long coveted the CEA position who had languished in seemingly endless frustration knowing that there were exactly two gargantuan things that stood between him and the object of his desire: one being Napoleon Solo, whom he fancied himself molded after, the other being Illya Kuryakin, whom he despised.

Roden’s heart was filled with loathing for Kuryakin; a man he had often referred to in certain circles as, the ‘Red Commie Bastard.’ Long after the majority of section two agents had grudgingly accepted Illya Kuryakin into their ranks, Roden and a select few still stubbornly clung to their prejudices and suspicions about having a citizen from an enemy country operating in their midst. Even though they managed to keep their hostility in check by confining expressions of it to whispered conversations, subtle insults to Illya's face coupled with insinuations behind his back, Illya had over time, ‘accidentally’ overheard most insults ranging from comments regarding his loyalty, his slight stature, to his scientific pursuits.

Unfortunately, the bane of Roden’s existence was next in line for promotion.

But for the Russian’s current incapacitation, Roden would still be cooling his heels, waiting for the opportunity to show the Old Man just what he’d missed all the years he’d not been his CEA. Illya needed no extra powers of perception to know that from Roden’s point of view, it was nothing more than a miraculous spat of good fortune that had resulted in the sudden removal of both Solo and himself from the position Roden had for so long coveted.

This did not bode well for the section. Roden was a glory hound who had perfected the art of deflecting blame for mission failures on to junior agents, while being quick to take sole credit for a series of awe-inspiring mission successes. He was quite adept at avoiding the appearance of doing so.

In the company of his colleagues, he loved to compare his record against Solo’s, yet even with his successes, Roden’s record amounted to transitory flash to Napoleon’s permanent substance. “Napoleon. I heard about the trial verdict. Tough break,” Roden oozed. The man’s smile, with its overly-large white teeth, was an all together oily expression. Illya snorted under his breath at the man’s obvious insincerity, but otherwise, remained silent, keeping his gaze forward.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” Illya heard Napoleon reply in a voice that was as cool and smooth sounding as it ever was. “It wasn’t a trial. It was a decision by an administrative board and thankfully, a decision that can be reversed.”

Roden’s smile grew impossibly wide with a touch of patronizing, false sympathy shellacking it. “Yes, of course. That’s real swell of you to take it like a man after being hung out to dry by Mr. Waverly, Napoleon.” The man didn’t miss a beat when he added, “And you’re right. Being found guilty of murder by an U.N.C.L.E. board isn’t the same thing as being convicted by a jury of your peers in civilian court, is it? Well, don’t you worry, that chair of yours hasn‘t been allowed to grow cold.”

Illya could have sworn he heard the hiss of Napoleon’s breath. Kuryakin trained his eyes on the big man and he looked at him as though inspecting an unusual bug. For the first time he spoke. “How does it feel?” he asked, his voice sounding cold and flat even to his own ears.

Roden frowned and spared Illya a puzzled look. “How does _what_ feel?”

“Napoleon‘s chair,” Illya answered patiently as if speaking to a simpleton. “How does it feel to sit in Napoleon’s chair?’

The acting CEA’s baffled expression gave way to an equally clueless sneer as he folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow. “It feels just fine; like it was made for me,” he answered.

Illya’s blue eyes were ice glaciers that heaped on additional frost to his retort. “Good. Because that’s all you’ll ever do: _sit_ in that chair. Let’s just hope no one has to die unnecessarily while you are doing it.”

Roden’s face turned an angry, embarrassed shade of red. “See here, you little -”  
“Be a pal and excuse us, would you? Illya’s got places to go and people to see, ” Napoleon’s voice cut in smoothly, the level tone of it barely masking his amusement. Without delay, the wheelchair started forward again and Illya felt Napoleon deftly maneuvering it around one annoyed, sputtering Bruce Roden.

When they were far enough down the hall, Illya let his tired body relax from its rigid posture. He closed his eyes and clutched the wheelchair’s arms when a sudden wave of vertigo and nausea hit him. “Napoleon,” Illya gritted out in a strained-sounding voice.

“What?”

“I feel most unwell,” Illya admitted reluctantly.

“Serves you right for going gallivanting about the hallways in a stolen wheelchair,” Napoleon chided, but not unkindly. He pushed the chair a little faster.

“I did not steal this conveyance,” Illya gamely launched a weak protest that held only a shadow of his normally acerbic wit.

“Oh? And tell me again how you merely requested to leave the infirmary and the good Dr. Greenberg said, ‘sure’ and brought you this chair?”

“Not exactly,” Illya mumbled.

Napoleon laughed low. “I have a feeling I know exactly how that scene played out, my cunning little Russian and someone besides yourself is in trouble.”

It seemed to Illya that in one moment he closed his eyes and the next, Napoleon had turned the chair around and was using his back to push open the double doors leading into the Infirmary. The chair was swung around again and then all movement stopped abruptly. Illya opened his eyes to find the statuesque figure of Lavina Richardson towering over him, her fine features wearing a displeased expression. Behind the ebony-skinned senior nurse stood Cindy, the young nurse who had brought Illya the wheelchair, looking contrite with just a hint of watery-looking eyes.

The pretty blonde had clearly been on the receiving end of a severe dressing down and the sight of the young woman nearly in tears pricked Illya’s conscience. Knowing that he was the cause of the gullible nurse’s misery was an affront to his sense of chivalry - a trait he was prone to dismiss as being merely an inconvenient weakness of character. Nonetheless, he found himself speaking words to the senior nurse designed to mitigate the nurse’s actions and take the blame solidly on himself.

Illya’s advocacy fell on deaf ears as Richardson dismissed the wayward nurse with a promise to continue the ‘discussion’ later.

Nurse Richardson turned chocolate-colored eyes, normally so expressively warm, but now stern and unforgiving, on Illya. “Give me your wrist, Mr. Kuryakin,” the woman demanded. For a bizarre moment, Illya thought the infuriated nurse was going to give him a slap on his hand but instead, she silently took his pulse.

After a time, Richardson frowned and Illya waited as a man destined for the gallows for the expectant lecture.

It never came.

“Mr. Solo, would you please take Mr. Kuryakin back to his room? I’m sure Dr. Greenberg will be along shortly as soon that poor Mr. Archer is settled in recovery,” Lavina Richardson calmly said instead.

“Right away,” Napoleon replied.

Illya knew without looking that Napoleon was affecting his most demure aire in order to dampen some of Nurse Richardson’s wrath. The chair started forward and then suddenly stopped. Pain flaired in Illya's leg and he winced. The Russian heard a curious intake of breath coming from Napoleon.

“Archer?” Napoleon inquired, his voice projecting concern. “As in Enforcement Agent Arnold Archer from the Washington DC office?”

Nurse Richardson sighed tiredly. “Yes, that is the young man’s name and where’s he’s from. He was in emergency surgery for quite some time.”

“I see,” Napoleon said. Suddenly Mr. Waverly's earlier stroll down to the infirmary made sense.

Solo exchanged a look with Illya whose meaning Illya was unable to decipher. Kuryakin hated not feeling as sharp as he usually did. His mind and body felt like a blunted knife, unable to make a clean cut through the layers of unspoken communication that should have been so effortless. Of course, Illya was unaware of what Napoleon had pieced together.

“Is Mr. Archer going to be all right?” Napoleon asked, his tone sounding more like an urgent demand rather than a curious inquiry.

Lavina Richardson suddenly looked uncomfortable and her gaze shifted away from Napoleon Solo before she forced it back. An awkwardness descended amongst the trio. Apparently Napoleon noticed for a frown drew down the corners of his lips.

An U.N.C.L.E. CEA had every right to inquire into the health status of any Section Two subordinate, including those who fell only indirectly under their responsibility, however; the news that Napoleon had been placed on a suspended status and that another agent was currently occupying the position of CEA had reached far and deep into the bowels of the New York headquarters, and the infirmary had been no exception. Solo was no longer CEA and not privy to that kind of information as a matter of course.

“Napoleon, you know that because of your current suspension I can’t discuss a patient’s status with you,” Lavina answered regretfully. She deliberately shifted her gaze from Napoleon’s face to Illya’s.

Thankfully, Illya caught the ball without prompting. “Not directly, no. But I am second to the CEA and last I checked, I am not in a suspended status I am merely on medical leave. Can you at least tell me what happened and how’s he‘s doing?”

Nurse Richardson proceeded to brief Illya as if Napoleon Solo was not standing right there. “Mr. Archer was hit by a speeding cab while on his way here from LaGuardia. That poor man. He was struck and then the driver just kept going leaving him to almost die from the damage caused by broken ribs, internal bleeding and a broken pelvis. That’s just for starters,” the ebony-skinned nurse finished angrily, her Caribbean accent gaining strength in the retelling.

“Will he make it?” Napoleon asked somberly.

She sighed. “He’s going to be laid up for quite a while but he’ll make it. He’s young and strong, and he couldn’t have been in better hands. Dr. Greenberg pulled off another miracle if you asked me. No surgeon other than him could have put that body back together again the way he did.” Nurse Richardson looked pointedly at Illya. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“No thank you. That is quite enough,” Illya replied. A shudder ran through him just thinking about how long the other man’s recovery was likely to be.

“Indeed.” The subject was closed when Nurse Richardson asked Napoleon to return Illya to his room before she walked away.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda forgot about this drawing. Unlike most of the MFU art I'm posting here, this is one piece that WAS actually created for The Misplaced Agent Affair. It is called, "Worry". If I had an actual fannish life anymore, I would draw many more art for the story.

*******

Napoleon was silent on the short trip toIllya’s room. He had nothing to say either during the slow, careful transfer of Illya from the wheelchair back into the Russian’s hospital bed. Illya endured it stoically, but Napoleon knew the movement had caused him a great deal of pain by the way his pale features blanched even further, by the trembling in his slight body, and by the grim, set line of his mouth. “Easy now,” Napoleon said quietly. He poured a fresh glass of cold water from the bedside pitcher and silently handed it over once the transfer was complete. Kuryakin took the glass but his shaking hand caused some of the water to splash out. Without a word, Napoleon took the glass and held his hand over Illya's until the shaking stopped and the other man could manage sipping the water.

Solo, for all his attentiveness, quickly became reoccupied with thoughts of a day he’d preferred to never think about again. He had actually known, as soon as he’d heard the name that the young agent in question was the one from the Washington DC Headquarters who had helped dig Illya out of the pit with nothing but his bare hands. This too was the same Archer who had inexplicably crucified him at the Inquest with a scathing report of Napoleon‘s actions which had subsequently been read into the record.

Napoleon, ruthlessly pushed aside the bitterness that rose up every time he thought of those damning words Archer had written about him. The frustration of not knowing why the younger agent had written what he had still lay over Solo like a heavy, rank-smelling blanket. But he didn’t have time to wallow in hurt feelings anymore, not when there appeared to be yet another mystery at hand, something more worthy of contemplation.

Napoleon easily recalled the brief exchange he’d had with Mr. Waverly in the hallway earlier that day. He’d asked and been subsequently denied an answer to his question as to what was going on in the infirmary, but Mr. Waverly had deemed it significant enough to require his personal attention.

Hours later, Solo now knew just what, or rather who had propelled the old Section Chief out of his office and down to the infirmary, but there were still more questions than answers. Why had Agent Archer come the New York Headquarters in the first place? Napoleon assumed he had been summoned by Mr. Waverly and if so, to what end? Lastly was the troubling speculation as to whether or not the younger agent had actually been targeted for assassination.

The silence stretched on, but after a time Napoleon forced himself from his introspection and spoke. “I believe someone tried to kill the man who helped save your life.”

Illya’s pale face, tired and worn, turned towards Napoleon but the ice-blue eyes that looked at him were bright and alive with interest. “Why? It could have been just an unfortunate accident, Napoleon.”

“Well,” Napoleon answered slowly. “I haven’t figured that part out just yet - but I will. My gut tells me that he’s going to pull through this and when he does, he’s going to tell us exactly what happened.”

“What does your gut tell you about why he was here at New York Headquarters?” Illya asked.

Napoleon shook his head and looked slightly rueful. “The only thing my gut is telling me right now is that it’s hungry.” Clueless as to the real answer to Illya’s question, Napoleon hadn’t meant to say that. He’d thought only to respond with a quick quip. Much to his surprise; however, he found that he truly had worked up an appetite while Illya looked as though the sight of food would cause him to heave his guts out. For Illya’s sake, he buried the idea of going to get some food and bringing it back to his partner’s room.

Instead, Napoleon pulled up a chair and sat down, head bowed. That simple action seemed to dampen down the fledgling lighter atmosphere that had been there just a moment before. “I’m in trouble, Illya,” he said simply.

“And what is that attorney of yours - or should I say, Mr. Waverly’s boy doing for you?” Illya’s lips had thinned into a hard, disapproving line.

Napoleon bristled. He detested being the pawn in whatever game the Old Man was playing, especially one, it seemed, that had ended in disaster. As far as he was concerned, any plan that involved him being suspended, hauled in front of a board, and humiliated before being formally censored in front of his colleagues was a failure of epic proportions.

It disconcerted him to no end to think that Waverly may just have deliberately maneuvered events to produce this very outcome, or that, despite having witnessed how hard McKinney had advocated on his behalf, the attorney may very well be complicit in Mr. Waverly’s secret plans.

The part of himself that still believed in Truth, Justice, and U.N.C.L.E. would much prefer to think that the Old Man had simply made a miscalculation in an otherwise sound plan. Solo had consoled himself with the thought that this ‘miscalculation’ would not have occurred had Waverly not cut him out of the plan to address whatever threat U.N.C.L.E. was facing.

Such were the thoughts of Napoleon Solo when his brain reminded him that Illya was waiting for a response. Napoleon sighed darkly. “McKinney’s a right enough fellow, but he’s swimming in black water too,” he finally answered, which did not at all answer Illya’s question but somewhat eased Napoleon‘s mind when he found that, yes, he really did believe that McKinney was not knowingly working against him.   
  
“The water’s getting blacker,” Illya observed dryly. Heavy-lids closed over tired eyes before Illya brutally forced them open again.  
  
“Yes,” Napoleon agreed softly, trying to keep his voice devoid of any depressed tone. He forcefully rallied when he spoke next. “McKinney is going to demand that Dr. Phoenix’s body be exhumed and brought to U.N.C.L.E. New York for a second autopsy. He’s convinced that Dr. Hockert was not impartial to the extent that he looked only for evidence to support his conclusion that it was murder while ignoring the possibility that Dr. Phoenix suffered from a congenital defect that killed him.”

Apparently, Solo’s enthusiastically delivered news did not have a complimentary influence upon the ill Russian. Illya continued to look troubled, with shadows of doubt in his eyes that Napoleon didn’t care for. Illya remained silently thinking until Napoleon couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I could use a little cheer here. Isn’t that good if Dr. Greenberg can show Phoenix had a spinal condition?” Napoleon prompted.

Illya struggled to a more upright position in the bed. Sweat dampened his fevered face and he wiped it away in irritation before finally speaking. “Da. This is good,” Illya said slowly. “But…” his voice trailed off and his eyes closed briefly. “Napoleon, what if it’s not enough? Even if it can be proved that Phoenix had a congenital defect, will it be enough to exonerate you?”

“It will prove I didn’t deliberately break that old man’s neck,” Napoleon answered testily.

Illya muttered something under his breath that Napoleon didn‘t catch. The blond man shook his head as if trying to sharpen and clarify muddled thought processes. Blue eyes, bright with fever trained on Napoleon‘s face. “You must do more than that to clear your record and regain your standing once and for all. You must prove that you didn’t kill Phoenix - accidentally or deliberately. Kuyakin laid his head back down on the pillow wearily. “We are missing something. Something still remains not right,” he insisted.

Napoleon’s gloom descended again and he shrugged his shoulders not knowing what to say. He settled on the oblivious point that every analysis came down to: “I punched him.”

“I know that,” Illya replied patiently. “What we don’t know is _why_ he died - I prefer to hear the _real_ reason this time.”

“If there is another reason, I’d sure would have liked to have heard it a couple of days ago.” Napoleon answered with a small trace of bitterness. “Too bad I can’t just ask Dr. Phoenix.”

“Dead men _do_ tell tales, Napoleon. Dr. Hockert just wasn’t listening. Let us trust that Dr. Greenberg has better hearing.” Illya wasn’t smiling, but the troubled expression had given way to something that was a balm to Napoleon’s bruised soul. Illya’s piercing eyes of vivid blue shone with affection and encouragement for Napoleon - only for Napoleon.

Napoleon smiled slightly then, as if on cue, the door to Illya’s room opened admitting a scowling, exhausted-looking Dr. Greenberg followed by Nurse Richardson. Dr. Greenberg directly proceeded to his wayward patient’s side without acknowledging Napoleon’s presence. In the meanwhile, Nurse Richardson began a check on the Russian’s vitals as Greenberg commenced a manual examination of Illya’s injured leg. He thoroughly poked and prodded the hot, swollen limb and Napoleon winced when he heard Illya’s sharp hiss of pain.

The expression on Dr. Greenberg’s face eloquently conveyed the physician’s growing displeasure but still he did not address his patient. The doctor turned his head towards his nurse. “Draw another blood sample please, Lavina,” he requested in a low voice.

“Yes Doctor,“ Nurse Richardson responded. She handed over the chart in which she had dully recorded Illya’s blood pressure and temperature. “His temperature has increased, blood pressure decreased,” she noted while reaching for the items necessary to draw Kuryakin’s blood.

For the first time, Dr. Greenberg directed his comments directly to Illya. “What exactly is it about the words, ‘remain in bed do you not understand?’ I’ve just spent some very intense hours piecing together one of your fellow agents, and I didn’t expect to have to deal with another who can’t follow directions - not that you ever had any particular talent for following medical advice.“ The words were sternly spoken and Dr. Greenberg didn’t wait for a response.

Napoleon thought that worked out well because he knew Illya would give none.

“You’re showing signs of dehydration despite the IV fluids you’ve been receiving, and despite the massive amounts of penicillin I’ve been pumping into your system, even without benefit of blood test confirmation I can see the infection is resistant to treatment.” Greenberg frowned and for once Napoleon saw an expression on a countenance more dour than the one Illya was known to wear.

Illya tensed and his expression became distant, untouchable. Before Napoleon’s very eyes, Illya was withdrawing into himself.

The physician sighed then gentled his voice. “I’m going to have to take another x-ray of the leg to see what’s going on and unfortunately, to get a complete picture, I’ll need to perform another bone biopsy. I’ll be looking to see if the break is still stable and if any abscesses are forming.”

Napoleon tried to catch Illya’s attention with the intent of giving him a sly, slick look normally reserved for assuaging tight, uncomfortable situations such as when being on the receiving end of a dressing down from Mr. Waverly. It was a look that said, ‘cheer up, it seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Illya, however; stubbornly stared woodenly ahead and did not see it.

Eventually, Illya swallowed hard. “And then what?” the Russian softly asked. It was as close to an apology for his unauthorized sojourn out of bed that Dr. Greenberg was likely to receive from the ill agent.

“One thing at a time. Let me first see what we’re dealing with, okay?”

“Of course,” Illya replied, his tone flat and remote. That was that. No look of fear to marr his fine features, no vocalized concession to the worry or guilt Napoleon knew must be assailing his partner, escaped his lips.

Solo remained by his partner’s bedside while Nurse Richardson finished drawing the blood sample. When the task was finished the doctor and the nurse departed, ostensibly to make preparations for Illya’s further medical tests. Kuryakin remained still, eyes locked on some point straight ahead. “Illya,” Napoleon called softly but the blond didn’t answer, nor did he move. “Illya,” Napoleon repeated.

Illya sighed and looked at Napoleon. “How soon do you think McKinney will get approval for a second autopsy?”

The abrupt change of subject was completely in character for his partner and thus not unexpected, but still Napoleon wasn’t inclined to ditch the topic of Illya’s health just yet when it was obvious that the Russian was uneasy about the state of things. “Hey, Dr. Greenberg’s all bluster now because he’s exhausted, but you remember that he told you that these things take time?”

“I remember,” Illya stated flatly. “I’m tired and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He yawned widely as if to provide proof of his condition.

Napoleon nodded his head in understanding. “All right, but to answer your question: there’s no doubt in my mind that McKinney will do whatever he has to up to and including twisting Mr. Waverly’s arm to get me that ‘second bite at the apple’ as soon as possible.”

Just then Nurse Richardson returned, accompanied by two orderlies maneuvering a gurney into the room. “Dr. Greenberg is ready for you. Behave and you’ll be back tucked in your own bed in a jiffy,” she admonished in a tone that suggested she thought she was speaking to a recalcitrant child.

“Is the humiliation free under the U.N.C.L.E. plan, or does that cost extra?” Illya grumbled sourly.

Napoleon chuckled softly. Truth be told, he was somewhat relieved to see a return of his feisty, sarcastic Illya. Not that he’d never seen his partner so pale, weary to the core, and in pain before - he certainly had, but Illya’s current state was indefinably…different somehow. It left Napoleon feeling uneasy and he didn’t know why. He was unaware that his subconscious mind was busy suppressing the niggling thought that his partner was more ill than even he appeared - His conscious mind repeatedly assured him that his partner had a broken leg and everybody knew that, for a Section Two agent, a broken leg was akin to a deeply annoying paper cut.

The orderlies arrived during Solo's musings. Quick and efficient at their tasks, the orderlies had a pale and sweating Illya on the gurney and shuttled out the door. Napoleon watched the proceedings wordlessly. For once he fished for something encouraging to say and failed to find it. His inner self smiled grimly. The words, ‘good luck’ or “break a leg’, though wholly inappropriate, came to mind. He settled on calling after Kuryakin to tell him that he would be staying put until the medical tests were done and Illya returned to his room. A wave of the long, slender hand from the departing gurney was all the sign Napoleon had that Illya had heard him.

Alone now in the room, Napoleon resumed his seat to await his partner’s return. While he waited, Napoleon’s thoughts turned to pondering his immediate future. ‘Bring me some other evidence that will clear you of a wrongful killing’, Mr. McKinney had seemingly alternately challenged/charged him.

He snorted derisively. Hadn’t he gone over the events surrounding the mad scientist’s demise a hundred, no a thousand times? The analysis of causality and result always led him to the same conclusion - and unless a second autopsy revealed some new, relevant and dispositive factor, then Dr. Phoenix remained just as dead and he, just as guilty of his death and subject to the consequences.

Napoleon’s gaze came to rest upon Illya’s unoccupied hospital bed and he found his thoughts turning towards the other agent, who was at the moment, ensconced in a similar bed in the infirmary for the foreseeable future. Agent Archer’s scathing, damming written testimony - or at least the motivation behind it - was a mystery that stuck like a burr in Napoleon’s hide, and it begged for an answer. In the midst of the disconcerting self-doubt that had thrown him off-balance, and a situation where he’d been flying blind, he’d never doubted that he’d read the quality of Archer’s character correctly during the times he’d interacted with him in Washington D.C..

Solo took out his communicator pen. “Open Channel F”.

“Channel F open,” a pleasant female voice answered.

Solo’s uncanny ability to match a sultry female voice with the correct name from among the many ladies who worked in communications remained unchallenged. “Patty, Napoleon Solo here. Patch me through to Mark Slate, would you?”

“Of course, Napoleon.”

Napoleon promptly heard the voice of his British colleague.

“Yes, Napoleon?”

“Mark. Did you hear about the D.C. HQ Section Two agent who was struck by a vehicle and almost killed at La Guardia today?

Mark barked a short, dry laugh. “Well I haven’t got my head stuck in the sand. Of course I heard about the poor chap along with everybody else. Why?”  
  
“Who’s on the investigation?”

“Dewey and Stevens are working with the Precinct boys in blue. According to Dewey, it looks like the cab deliberately gunned for him before it took off.”  
  
Unseen by Mark Slate, Napoleon nodded his head. There was no surprise there. Still, he felt his mouth settling into a grim line as realization set in.

“Someone ordered a hit on Archer which means they knew he was going to be making a stop here on his way back to D.C.,” Mark concluded.  
“Is he going to make it?”

“Dr. Greenberg thinks so. He was badly injured, but he’s still here.”

“Hmm,” Slate replied thoughtfully. “Whoever ordered the hit may not be aware that they didn’t quite complete the job,” the British man speculated.   
  
“So who wants to shut Archer’s mouth? THRUSH? The syndicate? What the devil does Archer know that THRUSH or someone else would risk taking him out in such a public, messy way?"

“Someone should ask Archer,” Napoleon replied bluntly.

The ensuing silence lasted less than six seconds before Napoleon heard Mark’s vehement response. “No. Just…no, Napoleon. You stay out of this. You’re on suspension, remember?”

“I don’t want to ask him about a possible hit,” Napoleon smoothly denied. “ I just want to ask him about his written testimony that was used against me during the Inquest - something I’m not prohibited from investigating now that it’s over and my careers in the toilet by the way.”

Mark, sounding doubtful, asked his next question. “You don’t think the hit on Archer has anything to do with your Inquest and whatever Waverly's agenda is then?”

“If there’s a connection, at the moment, I fail to see it. Thanks for the information, Mark. Solo out.” Napoleon abruptly terminated the connection and put his communicator pen away. Driven by need to obtain answers from Agent Archer, even when logic and experience told him that it was fruitless to try at that exact moment, Napoleon found himself suddenly on his feet and walking with soft, steady steps out of Illya’s room and down the corridor.

It was a short walk before he stopped outside the glass-enclosed area designated as the Critical Care Ward. Not surprisingly, Napoleon saw Mr. Ibori from the Security Section standing guard. Solo nodded a greeting to the African agent and Ibori, who greatly admired Napoleon, nodded back. With irresistible curiosity, Solo peered in and immediately located the ward’s lone patient.

The unconscious Agent Archer was being dutifully attended by a nurse Napoleon recognized by the name of Peggy Stone. Napoleon hesitated for the briefest of moments before he quietly entered the room and crossed over to the bedside to stand where he looked down upon the battered form of Agent Archer.

“Hello, Napoleon.” Peggy acknowledged Solo’s presence in a voice cloaked in a soft, friendly tone.

“Hello Peggy. You’re looking quite lovely,” Napoleon greeted back in his customary familiar, friendly fashion. Solo noted the blush creeping up the woman’s face before turning his attention back to the man in the bed. Nurse Stone had not been numbered among Solo’s many conquests, but ironically, this nurse had had occasion to see just as much of Napoleon’s unclothed natural attributes as any of the women he’d dated.

Solo performed a visual inventory of the damage and medical accouterments attached to the still, pale man and as he did so, he could not help but see, in his mind’s eye the young, All-American looking agent jumping into the pit to help dig out Illya Kuryakin. He remembered too how dirty, stressed and exhausted he’d been and the way Archer had looked out for him, offering him respect and professional hospitality. _You’re a far cry from how I last saw you._ Napoleon clucked his tongue in sympathy. The whole of Archer looked to be one spectacular bruise and Napoleon realized that he was likely going to be in some degree of discomfort for quite a long time. He frowned. _Who did this to you?_ He spoke to Peggy: “Has he regained consciousness at all?”

“Briefly in Recovery.” Peggy glanced at Napoleon with affectionate, warm brown eyes. “He’s down for the count so if you want to speak to him you’ll have to get in line behind Mr. Waverly.”

Of that, Napoleon had no doubt. Waverly had summoned the agent for a reason, and Solo could almost believe that the crafty old fox had the skills to manipulate even a comatose man into spilling his guts, if he had to. At the moment, all Napoleon could do now is hope that whenever Archer regained consciousness, he too would have an opportunity to speak to him.

Napoleon considered what lay between him and his goal. It was one thing to charm his way into being granted access into the Critical Care Ward to simply look in on the welfare of an unconscious patient. It was another to gain permission to interview a patient he technically had no authority over, not to mention whose state of health was tenuous enough to require critical care.  
  
Napoleon casually hooked his hands in his trousers pockets and turned a debonair smile upon Nurse Stone. “I don’t suppose you’ll be on duty tomorrow? I’d like to come back then to ah…see how he’s doing.”

Peggy Stone smiled. It was an expression that said she knew exactly what Napoleon was up to. She too, was aware of Napoleon Solo’s suspension and removal from the CEA position. “Drop by in the afternoon, I just may be able to cover you for a five-minute visit - no more, Napoleon.”

Good, Solo thought. He’d take what he could get and just hope that Archer would actually be awake and coherent at the appointed time. “Thanks, Peggy. Have I told you lately what a swell woman you are?”

Peggy’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Uhmm, no. You said that to Sally Ann, though.”

Napoleon grinned sheepishly. “Forgive me, I’ve been remiss.”

The nurse chuckled. “You devil you. I forgive you.”

Napoleon turned to leave but turned around again when Peggy called his name. He looked at her expectantly.

“Whatever it is you’re looking for, I hope you get it.”

The devil-may-care, playboy persona had vanished. Napoleon was no longer smiling when he answered, “Me too.”

 

TBC

 

Feedback always welcome

 


	29. Chapter 29

  
Napoleon was somewhat dismayed to return to Illya’s room only to find his partner in a drug-induced sleep and Nurse Richardson by his side checking his intravenous lines. Napoleon crossed the room to stand next to Lavina and looked down at his sleeping partner’s face. It was evident that asleep or not, Illya was far from being in a restful, pain-free place. Even unconscious, Illya’s face conveyed discomfort, and the wrinkles upon his brow testified to an unabated level of stress as if he had fought against the sedation and lost.

The sight had an inevitable, instantaneous effect on Napoleon. A red hot flare of anger rose up from somewhere deep within when he recalled the nightmares that had besieged Illya the last time he’d been sedated. He fought to keep his voice level when he addressed Nurse Richardson. “Why is he sedated? Did you people force this on him again?”

Richardson’s tall figure stiffened almost imperceptibly and the light in her dark eyes seemed to shift even as she spoke gently. “No one forced anything on your partner, Mr. Solo. But let me ask you this: have you ever undergone a bone aspiration? It’s not much fun. Mr. Kuryakin’s high tolerance for pain is well known, but try having to endure debridement procedure on top of getting a needle jabbed deep into your bone.”

Napoleon could feel his face paling and Nurse Richardson seemed to soften her tone in response when she next spoke. “Even Mr. Kuryakin has his limits.”

Solo’s diminishing rage was rapidly being overtaken altogether by a much more conscious worry. “Are you saying he’s getting worse?” he asked in a low voice.

“That is not what I am saying. I’m saying that Dr. Greenberg is doing everything he can to clean out the infection in the bone to keep it from spreading into your partner’s blood stream. That meant that he had to check the condition of the bone. Unfortunately, Mr. Kuryain is experiencing an increased level of pain in the bone. Additionally, more dead tissue around the wound caused by the bone breaking through also necessitated some additional debridement.” Nurse Richardson shrugged and looked forthrightly at Napoleon. “ Your partner didn’t have an easy time of it and tomorrow’s treatment may very well include removing the internal hardware holding his tibia together.”

“I see,” Napoleon answered quietly. Illya had chaffed at being confined to the bed. Now it was going to be that much more difficult for him to put up with on top of the physical pain.

Napoleon reproached himself. He’d read the situation wrong when he’d all but accused the staff of having forced sedation on an unwilling man. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately and it made him feel foolish and disgustingly inept.

Nurse Richardson hadn’t said it, but Napoleon was certain he had detected hurt in her eyes at his near accusation, and even though he knew the ever-gracious senior nurse wouldn’t think it necessary, Napoleon felt he owed her an apology. Solo moved his gaze from the strained face of his sleeping partner and up into the dark-skinned, regal one as he rendered a sincere apology.

Richardson gently squeezed Napoleon’s arm - a gesture that conveyed her acceptance of the sentiment. “You look out for each other. We should all be that fortunate. Now,” she said, changing the subject, “why don’t you go and get yourself some dinner. You can always come back before eight o’clock to see how he’s doing.” She smoothed the covers over her patient out of habit. “He may very well sleep through dinner.”   
  
Napoleon looked down at the sleeping Russian. He was hungry and he could take care of a few things rather than just sit there while Illya slept. He’d be sure and stop by before the end of evening visiting hours. Decision made, Napoleon laid a hand on Illya’s good leg. “I’ll be back later, _Tovarisch_.”

Illya’s head shifted to the side and incredulous as it was, Napoleon could have swore that his partner’s expression conveyed his unhappiness at Napoleon’s announced intent to leave.

He hesitated.

“Oh no you don’t, Napoleon. I think you’ve had a rough day and Mr. Kuryakin would be the first one to insist that you take care of yourself first.” Nurse Richardson led the way to the door and she held it open for a reluctant Napoleon.

She was right, of course. Wordlessly, the former U.N.C.L.E. CEA followed the nurse out of the door.

*******  
  
The afternoon light of a long Manhattan day had finally given way to something better suited for the likes of Gianni Botticelli who, like certain parts of the city, tended to look better in the light of half shadows.

It was in one of those shadowy places where Botticelli had spent the better part of the last hour watching, waiting for the right time to approach his THRUSH contact. The cabbie took out another cigarette and nursed it to life with his last remaining match. He smoked and waited and while he waited, his mind played over the hit, savoring the details for his perverse enjoyment.

Botticelli smirked at the memory of how the surprised look on his target’s face had turned to one of desperation in the quick seconds before realizing it was too late and his body impacted with the cab. Between cigarette drags, he recalled the brief seconds before the immovable, invincible flesh of the U.N.C.L.E. agent learned that it was neither when steel decided to break it. He fairly hummed when he felt a sweet, phantom sensation of the accompanying thud.

Botticelli derived great satisfaction from his work - almost enough satisfaction to forgo payment as if the exchange of money for the deed was merely an afterthought and not the driving factor.

Almost.

He was here to finish the deal because when Botticelli agreed to do a job, Botticelli completed the job. It was time to get paid because after all, he had expenses. For one, his cab required bodywork to erase the evidence of damage. Two, he was going to have to lie low until his cab was fixed so he’d need the money for living expenses. At the moment, having the funds necessary to pay down a delinquent debt he owed his bookie fell under the category of ‘living’ expense.

From across the street, Botticelli’s gaze never left the row of dilapidated stores universally overflowing with bins of cheaply-made household products and clothing. When evening fell, store keepers dutifully pulled down the heavy roll-down metal gates or dragged accordion iron bars across store entrances to protect goods of dubious value inside. By 7pm, about half of the store owners had started the process of closing down their businesses and by 8pm all but one was dark and locked down.

Botticelli took one more puff before throwing down and squashing out the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. Emerging from the shadows, he quickly crossed the street and came around to the store’s back alley service entrance where he tapped in the code that would open the door. The door swung open and Botecelli stepped inside the store that, unbeknownst to most Manhattan citizenry, served as the entrance to a minor THRUSH satrapy.

The room where Botticeli found himself had all the appearance of a receiving and storage area for the store in front. The room was poorly lit with the sole illumination coming from a bare bulb attached to a ceiling fixture. The light cast eerie shadows upon the stacks of crates, racks of clothing, and a ratty-looking sofa.

Cautiously, he proceeded along the wall until he came to a staircase leading downward. He descended the steps all the while hoping that Damien “Mouse” Chenard would not be the THRUSH agent on duty tonight. Mouse was the only man he knew who enjoyed killing more than he did and that was saying something in light of his own trail of bodies he’d left behind in the Old Country. Mouse gave him the creeps since the THRUSH agent always looked at him as if he were contemplating how pleasurable Botticeli would look staked out naked with his skin flayed from his body.

At the bottom of the steps, he opened the door and stepped inside a room brightly lit in stark contrast to the lighting in the above level. The THRUSH office was stocked with three desks with chairs, a cache of weapons on a rack, communications equipment of various shapes and sizes, and a single, monstrous computer that took up most of one wall.

And he was there - the THRUSH agent on duty whose nickname was as ironically ill-fitting as could possibly be for Mouse was an enormous man of wide girth, towering height, and monster hands that could kill as easily as take apart and assemble the most delicate of electronic instruments. Upon seeing he had company, the agent rose from his chair. His small dark eyes came to rest on Botticelli.

The effect those cold, dead eyes had on a hardened killer such as himself was always the same. He was chilled to the core and for an instant, Archer’s would-be-killer seriously considered forgetting about the money and getting the hell out of there with his hide intact.

Greed prevailed and Botticelli let the thought pass. Instead he delivered a succinct greeting. “I’m here for my money.”

Mouse merely stared at Botticelli, not indicating that he’d even heard the man. This did not please Botticelli who repeated his words, this time slowly and forcefully.

The silence stretched and grew increasingly uncomfortable . After a time, Mouse’s lip curved up into a malevolent half smile. “Are you now? Well, for what job would you be referring?”

“Don’t play games with me,” Botticelli answered, annoyed. “The U.N.C.L.E. agent from Washington D.C. is dead. Cracked him open like Humpty Dumpty before he even left the airport grounds.”

Mouse’s eyes brightened with what Botticelli guessed passed for an appreciative gleam. For a split second the two men were kindred souls. The moment passed and once again, the cold, soulless eyes were upon Botticelli. “Thank you for the favor of that report but it of course, requires validation,” Mouse gravely intoned. “Now get out.”

Botticelli’s anger flared. He didn‘t have time for this foolery. “Jobs are not favors and my services don’t come cheap. I did what I was asked, now you owe me thirty-thousand dollars cash just like agreed.” The cabbie’s eyes narrowed as he watched Mouse. The placid mask the other man wore was deceptive and hid a world of violence and death that far exceeded his own. Tendrils of disquiet began to rise within Botticelli, but he brutally squelched the feeling down. The target was dead. He was sure of that.

“I will verify for myself that you have successfully carried out your assignment.” Mouse announced, his words not at all disguising his amusement.

Botticelli folded his arms over his chest and glared at the over-sized THRUSH agent. “Go ahead,” he answered coolly.

Mouse lifted one eyebrow up a notch as if in challenge, but he said nothing as he picked up the phone and commenced making a series of phone calls which lasted well over 30 minutes.

Mouse was speaking but his voice was too low for Botticelli to hear what was being said. At some point in the conversation, Mouse laughed and the sound, to Botticelli’s ears, was not pleasant.

Mouse finally concluded his calls and without even looking in Botticelli’s direction, walked over to a safe in the wall. He opened it and took out a sum of money and carefully counted it. He closed and locked the safe then turned back to Botticelli. “It seems as though you have…over-rated your performance. At this very moment Agent Beams has confirmed that your target is very much alive. He survived your poorly-executed assassination attempt.” He paused to crack his knuckles and the sound echoed ominously in Botticelli‘s ears. Mouse grinned humorously. “However, I have been asked to give you this compensation - for your time.” Mouse walked over and stuffed a wad of bills into Botticelli’s jacket pocket.

Botticelli immediately drew forth the bills and counted out the sum of one thousand dollars. Rage warred with humiliation over the low amount. “Listen up you cheap bastard.” Botticelli squawked, spittle flying from his lips. “Your people brought me over from the old country, made sure my papers were straight, so I work for you to show my ‘preciation, but that don’t mean you’re the only game in town.”

“It does if you want to stay alive.”

Botticelli shuddered. Mouse was looking at him with that chilling glint in this eye that suggested the THRUSH man was envisioning something far worse than him being staked out naked and flayed alive.

He could do it too. Mouse could make him disappear just for the fun of it and no one, not even his THRUSH handler would expend much energy trying to find out where his body was buried. Botticelli vaguely wondered if THRUSH had any idea just how tenuous a hold Mouse had on sanity.

“You know what the penalty is for failure,” Mouse spoke softly. The big man shrugged. “For some reason, yours is being overlooked. If you want more money, I suggest you take it up with Mr. Beams since the higher ups told me that he exceeded what he was authorized to commit THRUSH to pay.” Mouse cracked his knuckles again and began to advance on Botticelli.

This, Botticelli took as his cue to leave which he did, fuming, but with all due haste. His own cold, ruthless, blood-thirsty heart was pounding hard by the time he wretched open the door and nearly spilled out onto the back encounter. Take the matter of with Beams. _You bet your ass I will_! It wasn’t his fault that the U.N.C.L.E. cockroach hadn’t died after being mowed down. Beams promised him thirty-thousand dollars and by God he’d get the rest of the money out of the weasel if he had to track him down to get it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any reading: thank you for the feedback!


	30. Chapter 30

 

When Napoleon returned to Illya’s room he found a weary Dr. Greenberg sitting in the chair Solo normally occupied.  Greenberg was no longer wearing his white doctor’s coat, but instead, was clad in a turtle neck sweater and dress pants.  His sport coat was draped casually over one knee that lay crossed over the other leg.   He was ready to go home, but had waited for Napoleon, that much was clear.

 

“Dr. -”

 

“Not here,” Dr. Greenberg interrupted.  “Step outside.”

 

Greenberg rose from the chair and both men exited the room.

 

Once outside, the doctor got right to the point.  “Napoleon, there is a particularly aggressive strain of the bacteria Staphylococcus aureus waging war in your partner. His bone marrow is swelling and the swollen tissue is pressing against the rigid outer wall of his tibia.  This in turn is causing the bone marrow to compress which unfortunately, is reducing the blood supply to the bone.  I believe that the internal fixation devices have become a focal point of infection and if not removed, the infection may very well spread from the bone and start forming abscesses in the adjacent muscles and soft tissue.  

 

At the moment, Illya’s receiving increased IV fluids and the dosages of penicillin to combat the Osteomyelitis.  In the meantime I’m going home for a few hours of rest, but Dr. Young is here and will remove the internal fixation devices from your partner’s leg and affix an external apparatus into the healthy bone above and below the infected area.”

 

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed.  “And?  What aren’t you saying?”

 

Dr. Greenberg sighed.  “It’s not as bad as it sounds, but the infected bone may need to be removed and allowed to grow back.”

 

Napoleon grimaced.  “Does Illya know this?” 

 

 “Yes.” 

 

Things were much clearer now.  Napoleon understood why Illya’s face had borne such a strained expression even in his unconscious state. There was no doubt in Solo’s mind that Kuryakin’s terror of amputation, which he held deep in his psyche, would only be enhanced by the knowledge that part of his leg could be removed.

 

Napoleon closed his eyes.  He was in for a long night.

 

*******

 

 

_He’d been walking in fields of golden-honey colored wheat that stretched on seemingly with no end.  How long he had been walking, he did not know. He walked with hands extended, his fingertips lightly brushing the tall stalks, his mind absently registering the rough textures. The rows of wheat swayed in a gentle rhythm and the breeze that moved them caressed his hot face. He paused a moment to look heavenward. How blue the sky was, blue like the color of his dead mother’s eyes that even in faded memory he could still see looking upon him with love and kindness._

_This place was comforting if not quite familiar. This was Russia and yet not. Where were the others like him, a generation of orphaned children violently birthed from Mother Russia’s bloody womb, set to hard labor in the fields? Where were the combines to bring forth the crop, the best of which was, destined to be declared too valuable to waste on the likes of Russia’s hollow-eyed, orphans? Where were the stern-faced, work-worn women and the toothless old men whose advanced age was both their blessing and their curse in a place so ravaged by war?_

_It was quiet, too quiet.  Even the act of walking in the field produced no discernible sound.   He was alone in this surreal setting, but not afraid._

_Not yet._

_What did he have to fear? He was no longer the hungry, frightened orphan of the war years. In the sunshine of this warped reality, he was aware of himself and knew the form he possessed was that of a grown man.  This was a peaceful, tranquil place and in it, he felt he could walk forever._

_He ambled aimlessly until he came to a point where the rows of wheat began to thin out.  He slowed his pace, but kept walking. Tendrils of disquiet began to disturb the odd, languid peace in which he walked, while the China blue of the sky slowly faded and darkened.  The scene was changing, shifting and sliding into something that felt malignant._

_His heart began to pound and the disquiet he’d felt creeping into his soul turned to outright dread.  He kept walking, but now it was as though he was under the power of some compulsion, rather than his own free will. His mind was screaming at him that danger lay before him.  He tried to turn around and go back from whence he came, but could not. One reluctant step followed another until at length he came to a clearing and he stopped, his mind trying to make sense of the incongruous scene before him._

_Like an alter waiting for a sacrificial offering, a medical table stood in the middle of the clearing.  Farmers carrying rusted scythes and with faces obscured by surgical masks, stood as sentinels along each side._

_Suddenly his body was seized by paralysis and he could move neither forwards or backwards. The farmers advanced on him and he could do nothing to avoid the grasping hands that latched firmly on to him. He was dragged towards the table and effortlessly lifted on top of it. Strong hands with relentless grips secured him to the table._

_His breath came in harsh pants and the sound of it, which broke the silence, was so very loud in his ears. Terror gripped him tightly, breaking through the paralysis so that he thrashed and bucked in a vain attempt to break the oppressive holds._

_It was no use. There was no escape. The hands holding him down tightened painfully until he thought his very bones would snap. He felt one trouser leg being yanked and pulled up, exposing both his bare limb and their evil intent. Fear and fury mixed until he was no longer in control of himself. He had become like a wild animal caught in a trap, mindlessly struggling until complete exhaustion rendered him still save for the hot, humiliating tears that leaked from his eyes to track down his cheeks. He looked up into the cold, dark eyes of one masked farmer who held up his scythe and spoke in the mocking tone of one who expected no answer, would yield no quarter, “Why do you struggle, Comrade Kuryakin? You belong to the Motherland and she has need of you. Will you not give all that you have right down to your very bones?”_

_He bit his lip hard and held his silence. The farmer stopped to consider him before speaking in a cold, dead voice, “We will take what we want because it is our supreme right and your honored privilege. Now ready yourself.”_

_His eyes locked on the scythe in morbid fascination.  Just before the farmer raised the scythe over his head and made to swing it down upon his leg, the farmer reached with one gnarled hand to pull the surgical mask down revealing the half-rotted visage of the mad THRUSH scientist, Dr. Manheim Phoenix.  The dead man was leering at him from a mouth made crooked by a broken jaw.  His mind chanted, ‘Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Do. Not. Scream.’_

Illya screamed.

_*******_

The sound of his partner’s scream propelled Napoleon Solo violently out of his sleep as Dr. Young and the overnight nurse on duty came running, both barreling through the door at the same time.

 

The fog enveloping Napoleon’s sleep-addled brain instantly cleared when he saw Illya’s thrashing body.  His partner’s eyes were closed and it was clear to Napoleon that Illya was not really awake, much less had any idea where he was, or that he was safe. The slight blond’s body was trembling violently as Illya tried unsuccessfully to fold in on himself.  Kuryakin’s efforts were hampered in part, by the frightening looking, circular external metal apparatus encasing his lower leg, holding it immobile.  The Russian’s shaking hands blindly sought his encumbered leg. 

 

In a flash, Solo joined Dr. Young and the nurse at the Russian’s side.  Napoleon knew the doctor’s concerned, tense expression mirrored his own.    

If Illya didn’t calm down, he could do harm to himself and undo the work Dr. Young had done.

 

“Mr. Kuryakin!  Mr. Kuryakin!”  Dr. Young grabbed the thrashing Illya by his narrow shoulders.  This was a mistake.  Even half-drugged, weak, and out of his mind, Illya was still a dangerous force to be reckoned with.  Instead of being calmed, Illya erupted in violence. A balled fist flailed and connected with the doctor’s vulnerable cheek. 

                                  

The resulting resounding smack had Napoleon wincing along with the doctor.  Still, the doctor stubbornly held on to his writhing patient and increased his grip on Illya’s arms.

 

Then Napoleon Solo heard a sound coming from his partner’s mouth that he had never heard before and hoped to God to never hear again.  Illya, instead of being calmed, wailed out his anger, terror and pain like a trapped animal.  The sound of that inhuman wailing chilled Napoleon to the core and caused him to spring into action to save the doctor from the danger the other did not fully perceive.  Solo knew the Russian very well.  Even ill and depleted of strength as he was, Kuryakin was still capable of killing. “Let go of him, Dr. Young,” Napoleon hissed urgently.  When the doctor merely looked at him as though astounded to hear such a request, Napoleon deftly broke the physician’s hold on Illya with a skillfully executed martial arts maneuver.  “Sorry, Dr. Young,” Napoleon muttered when the doctor yelped and began rubbing his wrist.

 

“Mr. Solo -” Dr. Young warned.

 

“I’ve got him!” Solo’s gasp cut the doctor off.  He was desperate to stop the tortured sound being wrenched from deep inside his partner and just as desperate to keep Doctor Young from ordering physical restraints.  To that end, Napoleon employed his own hold on Kuryakin.  Unlike the doctor, Napoleon did not grab Illya’s shoulders, but rather gripped his partner’s chin and with the other hand, gently stroked down the hot, broad brow.  “Illya.  Illya, wake up,” Solo ordered in his most commanding U.N.C.L.E. CEA voice.  It was the authoritarian voice he used to both soothe and compel frightened innocents into performing feats of courage and skill previously unknown to them when desperate need required.

 

Abruptly, the dreadful wailing ceased and Illya’s body left off its violent writhing, although the trembling abated only slightly.  Napoleon’s gaze was glued to his partner’s face.  Illya was struggling to open eyes made heavy from the effects of the sedation and through it all, Napoleon continued with his litany of encouraging words and soft stroking of the smooth flesh.  Solo didn’t care that he had an audience observing the deep level of care and tenderness he was showing his partner; at this point he was acting purely on instinct, his singular intent only to calm and bring Illya back to consciousness.

 

After what seemed like a long time, those eyes, dulled and confused opened and remained so only by the sheer force of Illya’s indomitable will. “Napoleon?” Illya rasped, sounding achingly lost to Solo.

 

Napoleon leaned in close. “Yes, it’s me.  Look at me.”  He breathed a sigh of relief when the Russian did and his blue eyes cleared. Napoleon had no sooner relaxed when his heart lurched painfully as Kuryakin stretched his hand towards his leg only to stop halfway as a look of unspeakable dread twisted his fine features. 

 

Napoleon quickly grabbed at the questing hand, understanding fully what haunted his partner.  Illya believed that his leg had been amputated, even though Napoleon knew Illya’s rational mind had understood that Dr. Young’s primary purpose in operating was to remove the internal fixation.  Removing part of Illya’s infected bone had only been a possibility.

 

The operation had not taken long, but for Napoleon, Illya’s late night surgery had meant a tense, uncomfortable wait interspersed with intermittent dozing in the chair in Kuryakin’s room.  The end of that wait had come when Illya had been returned to his room and settled back in bed. Much to Solo’s relief, Dr. Young had come to him and confirmed that he had not deemed it necessary to remove any bone at that time.  Illya, of course, was unaware of that fact and Napoleon could only imagine the horrific nature of the Russian’s drug-induced nightmares.     

 

Napoleon smiled reassuringly.  “Don’t worry, _Tovarisch,_ your leg is still there – all of it. Can’t you feel that contraption they’ve got your leg trussed up in?”

 

Dr. Young shot Napoleon a dirty look.  “It’s called an Ilizrov apparatus.”

 

Illya’s breath hitched sharply.  Slowly, the blond head raised and carefully guarded eyes looked down the length of his body to where Napoleon’s hand lightly rested on Illya’s leg, just above the odd brace that looked like a cage with screws. The look of sheer relief that washed over Illya’s face was so powerful that Napoleon nearly wept to see it, but he ruthlessly maintained his composure.  

 

Illya’s head thumped back down to the pillow like a dropped stone.  Eyes closed, he lay still merely breathing.  In. Out.  In. Out.  Dr. Young moved forward, stethoscope at the ready, but Napoleon stayed his hand.  “Wait,” he quietly requested.  Young raised an eyebrow but complied, after all Solo had, without question, saved his partner from not only additional sedation, but physical restraints too.  The three waited, quietly observing Illya Kuryakin.

 

At length, Illya opened his eyes and his gaze tracked to Napoleon’s face. His lips curved ever so slightly upward and Napoleon knew that half-smile hid a swirling cocktail of gratitude, relief and embarrassment. 

 

“Thank you, Napoleon,” Illya said, his accent thick.

 

“You’re welcome.”  Napoleon glanced up at Dr. Young, who was looking at Illya thoughtfully as the doctor gingerly rubbed his bruised cheek.  Solo briefly wondered what the doctor was thinking before he turned his attention back to Illya.  Forcing his body and face to assume a more casual attitude in order to both help further alleviate Illya’s embarrassment, and dispel some of the drama that still lingered in the air, he grinned and spoke, “Ah… I think you’ve got some folks who want to check you over.  Are you up for that?”

 

“Of course,” Illya agreed in a low voice, the words sounding anything but willing.  Dr. Young began his ministrations, checking his patient’s vital signs and quietly issuing orders to the nurse before she departed.  Somewhere between Illya’s words and Dr. Young’s, the ceiling became the focal point of the Russian’s attention. 

 

Young addressed his patient, “Mr. Kuryakin, it’s very important that you rest and avoid unnecessary movement to the leg. I don’t want to have to use restraints –”

 

“Then stop giving me those cursed drugs!” Illya raised his head and snapped angrily.

 

Napoleon quietly sighed.  He didn’t blame Illya for the display of peevishness.  He was angered by the threat, that much was clear, but Napoleon also knew his proud Russian partner was angrier still at himself for having succumbed to the drug-induced nightmares – again.

 

Napoleon felt helpless.  He was out of his depth when it came to most things medical.  The drugs that kept Illya pain-free during surgery were the same ones that also brought on horrific nightmares.  Solo was no doctor.  One of the few medical facts he was certain of was that surgery without benefit of anesthesia was never going to happen in an U.N.C.L.E. infirmary.

 

Dr. Young, having taken a page out of Dr. Greenberg’s book when it came to dealing with the surely Russian, looked unruffled as he responded.  “Mr. Kuryakin, the drugs are necessary for surgery. I don’t really need to tell you that.  I regret the unfortunate side effects you’re suffering, but I don’t believe all of it is caused by a physiological reaction to the sedation.”

 

Illya’s full lower lip thinned into a tightly pressed line, but he said nothing.     

 

Napoleon frowned and looked at the doctor.  “What are you suggesting?”

 

“I’m suggesting that there may be a psychological element in play here,” he replied bluntly.  The doctor moved closer to Kuryakin’s bedside.  “Look, it doesn’t matter that you are a seasoned agent.  You experienced something traumatic and so far, you’ve managed to convince the staff psychologist that you’re fine because you know how to outsmart the tests.”  Young shook his head.  “I’m sorry but that little show you put on earlier proves to me that you’re not fine. Am I right, Mr. Kuryakin?”  Young paused to study his patient, who made no effort to answer.  “Am I right?” he repeated, this time softly, patiently waiting for an answer.

 

Illya glanced at Napoleon under long lashes before his gaze slid away. The blond man’s jaw clenched and then he swallowed hard.  “Yes.  You are correct,” he admitted reluctantly.

 

Dr. Young looked inordinately pleased that he had managed to wring that confession from Kuryakin and at that moment, Napoleon hated him just a little for it. The moment passed and he was grateful when the doctor announced that they could save the topic for later and that right now, rest was what Kuryakin needed. “I’ll be back to check on you in the morning” – he yawned while looking at his watch – “which will be in a few hours.”

 

Kuryakin was blinking his eyes tiredly, fighting sleep in order to speak.  “I regret hitting you earlier,” he said stiffly, his words beginning to slur. “I…I was not myself.” He closed his eyes and fell asleep before the doctor replied.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Kuryakin.”  Dr. Young placed a comforting hand on Solo’s arm.  “Come on, Mr. Solo; time to leave him to his rest.”

 

“I’d prefer to stay here,” Napoleon protested automatically.  That was true, though he was beginning to feel the need to escape the confines of medical. Between his ill partner and the injured Agent Archer, he’d been there too long.

 

“It’s not necessary.  Besides, you look about as done in as he does,” Dr. Young remarked frankly.

 

Napoleon knew Young was right.  Despite having napped, he _was_ tired. He gave careful consideration of his situation.  All of his instincts were telling him that it was paramount that he speak with Archer and he needed to be here to do that, but the nurse attending Archer had said that the agent might awaken in the afternoon.  As for his partner, he had a feeling that there would be no more bad dreams for Illya in the coming hours and that it would be safe and smart to go home and sleep in his own bed. 

 

He rubbed his eyes tiredly and made up his mind to go home. “I’ll go. Thank you for everything.”

 

Young nodded.  “We’re doing everything we can to get your partner back on his feet again,” he assured.

 

They reached the door and Napoleon looked at the sleeping Illya.  _Rest well, Tovariscsh._

*******     TBC

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	31. Chapter 31

 

While Illya Kuryakin was resting the night in dreamless slumber, back in his Washington DC apartment, Agent Jerry Beams was not.  Beams was a man who just hours before, had received the unpleasant news that there was yet another problem, a loose end that if not snipped, could easily blossom into trouble with THRUSH, not to mention his life as a double agent at U.N.C.L.E..  That could not be allowed to happen, not when he was so close to achieving his objective. The fact that the body of the old, dead scientist was going to be exhumed and sent to New York in the next 24 hours was also disquieting news, but even so, Beams remained confident that the real cause of death, and of his part in concealing the evidence, would go undetected. The crazy scientist had already been carved up like a chicken, Beams had sneered. If some New York U.N.C.L.E. coroner wanted to dice him up further, who was he to object? 

 

Even in the midst of his troubles, Beams could not refrain from crowing about what he had accomplished. He’d managed to do what other enemies of U.N.C.L.E. had only dreamed of:  he’d single-handedly toppled Alexander Waverly’s precious heir apparent from the throne.  Waverly’s knight was no longer in play, but that was only the beginning.  Beams couldn’t wait to execute his final revenge upon the old man who had betrayed his father, leaving him and the Grunewald family to the tender mercies of those sub-human Soviets in the process. 

 

In the fullness of time, he would wreak his final revenge upon Number One and when he did, he would personally squeeze the life out of Waverly and savor the pleasure of seeing the light fade from the old gray eyes. Better yet, maybe he would arrange to have Waverly smuggled out of the country and imprisoned on a penal colony in some Third World hellhole for the rest of his miserable life.  Only then in the mire of his suffering would Waverly come to know the true depths of Eugen Grunewald’s revenge being exacted against the man once known as ‘Felix Anderson.’

 

The greatness of Beam’s ego did not allow for the contemplation of contrary ideas like the folly in having acted impulsively in changing Arnold Archer’s report without having first, ensured the changes would never be detected.  Had he done so he would not have had to entangle himself with that THRUSH animal, Botticelli,nor would he now be contemplating a way to ensure that his injured partner never recovered enough to talk.

 

The ringing phone, loud and demanding, sounded close to his ear making him jump.  He swore under his breath before he picked up the receiver and spoke in a calm voice, “Beams.”

 

_Eugen..._

Funny how the sound of Gunther Vogel’s voice saying his name always chilled him. What did the meddling THRUSH handler want now?

 

“ _Herr Vogel,_ _was ist denn?_ he demanded sourly, knowing that his tone would annoy Vogel.

 

“Do not use the language of the Fatherland,” Vogel rebuked.

 

Tension fairly crackled through the phone line.

 

Beam raised an eyebrow.  German, Russian, or English, what did it matter? “My apologies. How can I help you?”  Beams forced himself to adopt a more conciliatory tone. This was not the time, nor was it smart to antagonize Vogel.  After all, it was he who was beholden to THRUSH, not the other way around, no matter how inferior he believed them to be.

 

 “The question is, how can you help yourself?”

 

Beams swallowed.  “I will eliminate Archer before he can talk.”

 

“Archer lies currently ensconced in the New York U.N.C.L.E. infirmary.  How do you propose to do that from Washington DC?” Vogel demanded.

 

Beams’ calculating mind searched rapidly for a plan, first formulating one then discarding it until he came to one that pleased him.  “I will volunteer for escort duty and personally guarantee the safe delivery of Dr. Phoenix’s remains to U.N.C.L.E. New York.  Once there, I will play the part of the shocked, grieving partner who should stay by his side until he is well enough to be escorted back to Washington DC. ”   

 

“You overestimate your abilities.  Perhaps _we_ have overestimated your abilities,” Vogel said coldly.

 

“Have I? Was it you who toppled Waverly’s overindulged, chosen one?”  He paused and allowed his voice to soften almost to a whisper as he answered his own question. “No, _Comrade_ , it was I who did that.”

 

Vogel laughed then and it was a chilling sound.  “What is true today is not necessarily so tomorrow - _Comrade._ ”

 

Beams had no answer for that.  Wishing to end the conversation, he abruptly asked, “Is there anything else?”

 

“Yes.  There is the matter of your unauthorized commitment of 30 thousand dollars of THRUSH funds to the hit man, Botticelli.”

 

Beams grew angry. Vogel had ordered him to take care of the problem - surely THRUSH could not have believed no money would be needed?  “How many times have I been told that THRUSH resources are at my disposal to get my job done?  Well, I needed the money to get the job done.” 

 

There was an icy silence, then, “THRUSH has paid Botticelli for the work that he _did_ do.  As for the rest, you must settle it with Botticelli.”

 

Beams fumed and cursed silently.  He would end up owing the killer thousands of dollars! Between his U.N.C.L.E. and THRUSH bank accounts, he doubted if he had more than ten thousand dollars combined; he would be ruined financially.   “I’ll handle Botticelli,” he replied tightly.

 

“See to it that you do.  And Eugen – there should be no changes to either Botticelli’s availability or his good health.  THRUSH still has uses for its animal.”  With that, Vogel terminated the conversation leaving Beams to contemplate the efficacy of seducing the Section Chief’s buxom secretary as a method of bankrolling his needs.

 

Later.  A seduction would have to come later.  Right now, the first order of business was getting his Section Chief to assign him escort duty to New York.  He could kill two birds with one stone with that since it would most likely send Botticelli on a wild goose chase.  He had no doubt that Botticelli would be hunting him in order to extract the rest of the money.  Botticelli would have every reason to believe he was in D.C. and no reason to think he was in New York.  With any luck, they would miss each other as Beams headed back to D.C. and on to phase II, the seduction plan.

 

The wall clock told Beams saw just how late it was, or to be more accurate, how early in the morning it was.  Insomnia was depriving him of a restful sleep and so resigned to his fate, he got up and made his way to the bathroom.  He bent low over the small sink and washed his face.  When he was finished, he straightened until he came face to face with his own wet visage in the mirror.  His own eyes, one glacier-blue, the other sea green, stared back at him from a face with its Aryan features.  These same features he transformed, every day, using the despised, brown-colored contact lenses and a slighter darker hair coloring into what his U.N.C.L.E. colleagues described as a, ‘clean-cut, all-American’ face.  The fools!  How he longed for the day when he would shed this inferior appearance forever. Beams left the bathroom, went to his closet, and pulled out his suitcase.  The act of packing for a trip to Washington D.C. was to anticipate victory in the first step of his plan to clean up the loose ends.

 

This would not be the first time Beams’ over confident ego would not serve him well, for in the morning when the Section Chief quite readily agreed to his request for escort duty to U.N.C.L.E. New York, it would never occur to Beams that his request was unwittingly fulfilling Michael Finney’s exact desire.  Finney, head of U.N.C.L.E. Washington D.C., wished to bring Agent Beams under the direct control of Alexander Waverly.

 

 

*******

 

“Are you sure?  Are you absolutely sure that U.N.C.L.E. has Section Two agents having the condition known as, heterochromia iridis?” Alexander Waverly demanded, fixing Dr. Greenberg with an intimidating stare which clearly expressed his displeasure.

 

Dr. Mark Greenberg fought the urge to stand military attention, ramrod straight in front of his boss, but it was difficult. Despite the fact that time and mutual respect had tempered a professional relationship into something more along the lines of a friendship of sorts, the Continental Chief still had the power to make him squirm like a naughty schoolboy being chastened by the headmaster. 

 

Now was such an occasion.  

 

At 7:00am, this was not the way he preferred to start his morning, but after having checked in on his patients, he found himself in Waverly’s office, delivering the results of a much anticipated report.  Unfortunately, Dr. Greenberg had compiled all of the world-wide reports documenting the medical records checks of all Section Two agents.  Not a single agent’s medical record contained an entry documenting heterochromia iridis on their applicant intake physical.

 

“I’m sorry, Alexander.  The medical records of every U.N.C.L.E. Section Two agent meeting the age parameters you set out were pulled and there’s not a single documented case of the eye color anomaly.”  He looked pointedly at the chair in front of Waverly’s desk and Waverly waved his hand impatiently towards the chair in response.  Greenberg sank into it. 

 

“I was so sure that I would find…Could I have been wrong all this time?”  Waverly’s voice, sounding puzzled and frustrated, trailed off.

 

Greenberg cleared his throat. “Maybe it would help if I knew _why_ you needed this information.”    

 

Waverly’s gaze held Greenberg’s for a moment, considering the doctor, weighing how much to disclose before he gave a soft grunt of assent.  “Perhaps. Up until now, the circumstances surrounding the necessity of having this information has been need to know. ” He paused. “I’ll be relying on your discretion, Mark.” 

 

Greenberg nodded. “Of course, Alexander.”

 

“I have sound reason to believe that the U.N.C.L.E. ranks have been infiltrated by THRUSH.  Specifically, by the grown son of a man who seeks to avenge an…” - Alexander fished for the right word. -  “…An indiscretion of mine from when I was a much younger field agent,” the Continental Chief stated. 

 

The U.N.C.L.E. physician easily read frustration in Waverly’s eyes, but there had been a flash of something else too, of what he was uncertain.  Had it been indecision?  Was that stalwart old bulwark doubting himself? He hoped not. A physician he was, a psychologist he was not. 

 

Greenberg tried not to let dismay and shock at the declaration of U.N.C.L.E. infiltration, show on his face. Mark shook his head over the irony of the situation.  Alexander’s plan to find the double agent by combing the medical records had proven spectacularly ineffective because he had held crucial information too close to the vest. “You should have told me why you needed to know, Alexander. I did not have all of the information and now much time has been expended on a useless exercise.”

  

Waverly looked peeved.  “Are you a doctor, man, or are you not? Heterochromia iridis is neither a common condition, nor is it something that any competent physician would have failed to note.”

 

Greenberg flushed, but he maintained his composure.  “The person whom you seek may still be operating within your ranks.  Had I known that you were looking for a double agent I would have explained to you that extensive eye exams are performed only on U.N.C.L.E. candidates who do not pass the standard eye exam with 20/20 vision.  A standard intake eye exam consists of the candidate reading an eye chart to measure vision acuity. Assuming your man has 20/20 vision, he could have concealed his true eye coloring with a pair of those colored theatrical contact lenses that some Hollywood actresses have been known to use.”        

 

The frown on Waverly’s leathery face deepened and then transformed into the closest thing Greenberg could call a sheepish expression he’d ever seen on the older man’s face. 

 

Waverly coughed.  “Yes, well, it has been at least a hundred years since I underwent an intake physical, and Lord only knows the last time my beloved Alice and I took in a Hollywood film at one of those crude cinemas.”

 

Greenberg smiled slightly.  “Surely you have other leads, other agents you may suspect.”

 

“Indeed,” Waverly replied gravely.  “One of them is your patient and the other is your patient’s partner.”

 

Greenberg’s mouth dropped open in a most unseemly display.  “Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Solo?  Are you mad?”

 

Waverly chuckled then at the doctor’s misunderstanding.  “No, not mad, and I don’t mean those two.  I mean Agent Archer and his partner, Agent Beams.”

 

“Agent Archer...”  Greenberg murmured in surprise.  He was beginning to feel as though he’d fallen down a rabbit hole.  He wasn’t just here to hand-deliver the compiled report on the U.N.C.L.E. Section Two agents.  He had also come up to brief Alexander Waverly on the condition of each of U.N.C.L.E. New York’s infirmary patients, Kuryakin and Archer.

 

He had found out during the middle of Archer’s surgery whom his patient was, and the role his written testimony had played in derailing Napoleon Solo’s career during the recent Inquest.  The medical staff rumor mill had also supplied him with the name of the eye-witness whose testimony had been the most damaging to Solo, although how they knew such things, he hadn’t cared to ask. He had never met Agent Beams, but he certainly knew his name.   These very same agents were the ones who had helped save the life of his other patient, Illya Kuryakin.

 

“You may be interested to know that Agent Beams will be on his way here to medical on escort duty,” Waverly informed Dr. Greenberg.

 

“To medical?” Dr. Greenberg asked, surprised and curious.  He’s escorting a patient here?  Why?  What ails the patient?” 

 

Waverly’s bushy winged brows scrunched closer together when he scowled.  “A rather incurable case of decomposition, I wager,” he said sarcastically.  He didn’t wait for a response before clarifying. “Your ‘patient’ is quite dead, Dr. Greenberg.  I granted Mr. Solo’s attorney’s petition to have the body of Dr. Phoenix exhumed and brought here for a second autopsy.  You will have the duty of performing that autopsy.” 

      

“I see.”

 

Waverly pressed the intercom button to speak with his secretary, “Miss Rogers, would you please bring in the Phoenix file?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Greenberg heard Lisa Roger’s feminine voice through the intercom.  Moments later, Rogers came in and placed the requested file on Mr. Waverly’s desk, and left, her walk in high heels and form-fitting skirt no less pleasingly sensual to Greenberg’s eyes for its business-like, economy of movement. 

 

The head of Section One placed the file on the desk and rotated the table around to  Dr. Greenberg. “You’ll want to familiarize yourself with the contents.” 

 

Greenberg took the file after it stopped in front of him, but before he could peruse the contents, Waverly inquired after the health of the two hospitalized agents.

 

“Mr. Archer’s condition has been upgraded to ‘serious, but stable.’  He came through the surgical procedures without complications.  “He’ll be recovering for a while with those injuries, but I have no reason to believe that it won’t be a complete recovery.  In the meantime, I’ve started tapering off the sedation levels and he should be regaining consciousness sometime this afternoon. ”

 

“Good work, as usual, Mark,” Waverly commented approvingly.  “And what of Mr. Kuryakin?  Do you have an equally optimistic report?”

 

Dr. Greenberg chose his words carefully.  “Mr. Kuryakin’s leg bone is still intact, meaning, late last night during the surgery to take out the internal screws holding  his tibia together, Dr. Young determined that it was not necessary to remove a portion of the bone just yet. I believe it was the right call under the presenting circumstances.  If the screws were indeed acting as the focal point of infection, and there was every indication that that was the case, then theoretically with their removal we have leveled the playing field and given the antibiotics a real chance at working. ”

 

“I see,” Waverly replied.  “So this move will be sufficient to arrest the infection?”

 

“There are no guarantees.” Greenberg regretfully admitted.

 

Waverly’s leathery face was an impassive mask, and Dr. Greenberg was not fooled by it.  The Old Man was worried about his number two agent.

 

Greenberg leaned forward.  “We’re staying on top of it. Improvement may take time but that’s not unexpected. On the other hand, we have a problem if his condition worsens.  Increased pain, increased fever are just the beginning signs that the infection is strengthening.  Rest assured, if bone removal and regrowth is indicated, I won’t hesitate to do it.”

 

Alexander Waverly waved an expressive, gruff hand which Dr. Greenberg interpreted to mean he was both acknowledged and dismissed.  Accordingly, he rose from his chair and folded the file under his arm.  “Well, Alexander, if you don’t have anything else, I’ve got patients to check on and an autopsy to prepare for.”

 

Waverly, looking preoccupied, asked Dr. Greenberg to send in Lisa Rogers after him. 

 

*******

 

For the second time that morning and for countless times yet to come that day, Lisa Rogers entered the Continental Chief’s office.  She observed her boss for a moment as he puffed gently on his pipe, a calculating expression on his face to go along with the gleam in his eye. “Sir?”

 

“Miss Rogers, contact Mr. Solo.  Tell him to report to me in my office in…” he glanced at his watch, a finely-made, and practical timepiece.  “…one hour.”

 

Lisa arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement.  “One hour?  Mr. Solo is He’s most likely asleep or,” she coughed delicately, “entertaining company.  You really want him to hustle don’t you?”

 

Waverly stared at his secretary.  “And why shouldn’t he?” he said with some exaggeration. “Can’t stay in suspended status forever.”

 

Rogers’ smile was wide and genuine. “No Sir, he can’t.  I’ll call him right away.”

She spun gracefully about on high heels and the swishing sound the skirt’s fabric  made as she walked accompanied her out the door. 

 

*******

 

The harsh, insistent ringing of the phone failed to penetrate the depths of the very deep sleep Napoleon had fallen into after what seemed like hours of tossing and turning.  After years in the field, Solo was far more attuned to the chirping of his communicator pen, thus after the phone seemingly conceded defeat and lapsed into  silence, the ensuing noise from the pen pierced Solo’s slumber like a pin through  cotton.

 

Eyes closed, half-asleep, Napoleon fumbled with the device.  “Solo here,” he mumbled sleepily.

 

“Napoleon, did I wake you?” Solo heard the sultry voice of Lisa Rogers in a manner that suggested that she knew darn well she had and found it terribly amusing. 

 

“What?” Napoleon said, sounding uncharacteristically stupefied.  Why would Mr. Waverly’s top secretary be calling him, especially when he was still in a suspended status? Heart suddenly racing, Napoleon came fully awake.  “Illya!  Did something happen to Illya?” he demanded.  Instantly he winced realizing how someone as astute as Lisa Rogers might discern the full nature of his emotional inquiry.  _I have to be more careful._

 

“I’m not calling about Illya,” Lisa said quickly.   

 

What, if anything the sharp secretary thought of his response, Napoleon could not tell.  Rogers was, in Solo’s experience, as discrete as she was intelligent and beautiful.  He calmed himself and got the conversation back on track.  “What does Mr. Waverly want?”

 

“He wants you to come in.  He needs to meet with you.”

 

There was genuine surprise in his voice which he didn’t bother to hide.  “Really? I don’t suppose he mentioned a reason?”

 

“Sorry, Napoleon, he didn’t,” Rogers obfuscated.  “You’ll just have to find out when you get here.”

 

“Very well.” Napoleon was already out of bed and wrapping his nude body in his robe.  “I’ll be there, say at -” he grabbed his watch from the night stand and glanced at it, and quickly calculating shower, shave, dressing time, plus travel time – “nine-thirty.”    

 

“I don’t think so, Napoleon.  Be here by eight-forty five.  Lisa out.”

 

Solo was left holding the silent communicator pen.  He cursed under his breath before launching himself, a second later, into a breakneck race to get himself ready and up to U.N.C.L.E. HQ.  _This had better be good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many readers, when looking around for a fic to read, the contents of the summary can strongly influence my decision to read or not. It occurred to me that this story has long out-grown the summary that it has had from day one, simply because when I started the story, the only thing I had in mind was a tale of Illya being buried alive in a pit and Napoleon rescuing him. Shrugs...turns out Napoleon demanded his own storyline and then Waverly got in on the action too. So my question, if anyone cares to answer is this: Is it time to rewrite the summary or just keep it?


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Aninnina for taking the time to answer my question!
> 
> I haven't posted any concept art for any of the finished pieces, but I did find this concept art for a previously posted, finished piece. I've always liked this concept piece because I liked the colors. Maybe someone else will enjoy it too.

*******

 

At exactly 8:42 am, an impeccably attired Napoleon Solo sauntered into Alexander Waverly’s outer office, appearing for all the world like a man with no cares. Not a dark hair was out of place, no harried expression told the story of Solo’s mad dash to go from dead asleep to ready to hear Waverly’s orders.  Only he knew the lengths he’d gone through to project that illusion. 

 

_With the clock counting down, and the challenge coursing through his veins, Solo’s car rounded the corner before he pulled it up at the entrance of Del Floria’s business.  He practically leaped from the vehicle and ran right past Mr. Del Floria to the hidden entrance to U.N.C.L.E. New York. The mad dash to the office had finally ended after he’d managed to maneuver his car around a traffic accident that had suddenly snarled traffic and boxed his car in the road a mere two blocks from his destination._

_His forceful burst through the secret entrance caused the young lady whose job it was to pass out security access badges to jump in a nervous start.  Napoleon’s hasty but sincere apology had been sufficient to calm her nerves and with a smile, she proceeded to pin a restricted access badge on to his suit jacket_. _“Thank you,” Solo recalled his manners enough to say._

 

_He proceeded down the corridor Waverly’s office via the most direct route, and when he reached his destination his pounding heart had slowed and his breath ceased to be audible.  He took a moment to calm himself and take a deep breath. Solo straightened his tie, and smoothed down his mussed hair with a comb. He was in control.  He had made it to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, and he had time to spare._

_Solo smiled._

 

Napoleon arrived at Mr. Waverly’s outer office to find Lisa Rogers at her desk.   He flashed the woman a pleasant smile that masterfully covered over the stress and his intense curiosity and anticipation over what The Old Man was up to was still causing him.

 

“He’s in the briefing room,” Rogers informed him.

 

Solo proceeded inside where he found Waverly already seated at the revolving table, casually leafing through a file.  “Good morning, Sir,” Napoleon greeted as he too took a seat in one of the black leather, high-backed chairs.  

 

“Possibly for you, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said cryptically. 

 

Solo felt the considerable weight of those old pale eyes assessing him critically.

 

“I could use a little good news, Sir.  It feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve had any,” Napoleon answered in a low voice.  He folded his hands on the table and looked expectantly at his boss.

 

“Effective immediately, you are no longer in a suspended status, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said without preamble.

 

Napoleon sat up impossibly straighter in his chair.  Elation swept through him and he barely managed to tamp down the urge to grin like an idiot.  Instead, he arranged his features into an expression of calm neutrality.  Slowly, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  His suspension was over and he could get back to work! He didn’t understand how this could be and somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that it might prove useful to know why, but right now, he didn’t care.  

 

Conveniently, Waverly answered his unspoken question.  “As you are well aware,” the U.N.C.L.E. Number One stated, “The Inquest has rendered a decision regarding your culpability in the death of Dr. Phoenix. Technically, the Inquest is over.  Be that as it may, your very diligent attorney has filed an appeal, the cornerstone of which is his timely motion for a second autopsy of the body.  I granted that motion due to certain…irregularities at the U.N.C.L.E. Washington DC Medical.”

 

Waverly paused for a moment and Solo clearly read the subtle tell that indicated his superior was about to impart something that he wished could be otherwise.  Solo suspected exactly what that was and Mr. Waverly confirmed it a moment later.

 

“Until your appeal has been exhausted and a final disposition declared, Mr. Roden will remain in the CEA position.  You will report to him in the meantime,” Waverly said in a tone that conveyed he had a low tolerance for any further discussion on the matter.

 

Some of the elation Solo felt at essentially being ordered back to work leached away at the thought of having to work for the abrasive, egotistical Roden.  He bit back any retort on his lips that threatened to spill out and instead, gave a slight nod in acknowledgement.  Very well, if the price for having the suspension lifted was misery under Roden, he would pay it.  He wanted back in the game, even if the game consisted of milk runs.

 

There was however, another matter still outstanding that had given Solo far too many sleepless nights and which required resolution. Solo was a man still very much in need of answers – answers that only Mr. Waverly could give him, and thus far been denied. For the first time in his association with U.N.C.L.E., there was doubt in his mind concerning his relationship with Mr. Waverly.  Hard as he’d tried, Napoleon still could not rid himself of the anger at Waverly he’d been forcibly suppressing.

 

It wasn’t that he was unable to understand the legal justification for holding the Inquest - he did understand.  He had also long ago accepted the fact that actually making use of that legal justification entailed a judgment call regarding the comparative value of Dr. Phoenix’s life as an intelligence asset in relation to countless other enemies who had, inadvertently, been dispatched to an early grave before U.N.C.L.E. had had an opportunity to interrogate them.  The legal, procedural justification and the apparent adjudged intelligence worth of Dr. Phoenix had served as convenient smokescreens to cover the real, unknown reason for why Mr. Waverly had put him through the stress and humiliation of a public Inquest.

 

Solo had been patient and channeled his energies away from addressing that particular issue, but now sitting here in front of Mr. Waverly, feeling relieved to have the suspension lifted, he could not believe that he was on the verge of throwing it all away.  He took a deep breath.  He would not lie to himself.  If he was going to return to Section Two duties, then he _needed_ Waverly to come clean with him regarding the real reason for being humiliated and having his reputation publicly dragged through the mud.

 

“You are dismissed, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said and turned his attention elsewhere.

There was a moment of silence that stretched into awkwardness when Solo made no move to leave. 

 

“I don’t think so, Sir,” Napoleon finally said quietly.

 

Clearly taken aback, Waverly’s bushy brows climbed high on his forehead and his pale grey eyes widened.  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, a tinge of impatience coloring his words. 

 

“There is unfinished business between us, Sir and pretending you don’t know that does a disservice to us both.”  Napoleon chose his next words carefully.  “Sir, I have given the U.N.C.L.E. organization my unswerving loyalty.  I would give my very life for the principles. That has not changed, nor will it ever.”  He paused to look at Waverly.  The old man was looking at him steadily, his face impassive though there was a world of calculation going on behind those ancient eyes.

  

Napoleon continued softly, “When I was called to the stand I said in front of everyone in that room that every agent understands that they are expendable.  A truth that will never change is that there may be a time when there is no rescue coming, or the mission one is asked to undertake is simply too dangerous to hope to come out alive, but nonetheless, must be accepted. The agent who doesn’t understand that should find another line of work. ” Solo lowered his voice then. “But this isn’t what we’re talking about here.  This is about the trust between us  -  a trust that has been severely strained.  I am not a robot or a brainwashed slave.  I am a man with a heart and a mind.  I would bleed for you, Mr. Waverly.  I would die for you, but I cannot go back and work for you knowing that there is a very serious threat to either you or this organization so severe that it caused you to use me as a pawn in a very painful, public way without even telling me why.”  

 

There it was.  He’d thrown down the gauntlet and essentially told his boss that it would be his way or the highway.  Solo mentally prepared to return to his office – not to sit at his desk again, but to permanently clear it out.

 

He should not have been shocked by Alexander Waverly’s response, but he was.

 

Waverly got to his feet in a graceful movement that belied his age.  He kept his back turned and for a moment, Solo thought he was going to leave the room, but when  he turned around and fixed his gaze on him, Solo was struck by the look of regret mixed with a touch of uncertainty upon the leathery face.  It didn’t suit him at all.

 

 “I never imagined that your actions during the Masked Ball Affair would result in the creation of a scenario that would present a logical and timely method of addressing a most vexing, insidious threat to me from the past, and by virtue of your association to me, a threat to you. But they did.”  Waverly made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a derisive snort.  “I deeply regret that I am still no closer to flushing out this threat now than I was before the Inquest.”

 

Napoleon felt his disbelief growing. He could not believe what he was hearing and his temper grew short.   “You dragged me through the mud in front of my colleagues, humiliated me, and had me demoted for nothing?”

 

“You were not the only one who drank out of that bitter cup, Mr. Solo,” Waverly chided gently. 

 

Of course not.  He could never forget the sight of Mr. Waverly on the stand, reliving the strange tale of himself and Albert Goering. At the time when Mr. Waverly’s past had been exposed, Solo thought that Waverly had manipulated the situation in order to secure a favorable verdict for Napoleon on the first count against him.  Now he knew that had not been true –at least not entirely.  The question remained. Why had he done it? “Why did you allow your past to be exposed that way?  I know that wasn’t easy,” Solo asked calmly.

 

“No it was not,” Waverly snapped.  “But it was necessary,” he added firmly.   

 

“Why? Why was it necessary?” Napoleon insisted.

 

“Because I have credible reason to believe that Dieter Grunewald’s son, Eugen has infiltrated the U.N.C.L.E. organization somewhere, most likely here in New York, or close to here.  His sole intent, backed by THRUSH, is to destroy me.  What better way to do that then start by taking out my heir apparent – you – in the process?”

 

“So you made a pre-emptive move by taking me out in an Inquest?”  Solo asked trying to keep the note of incredulity out of his tone.

 

“I acted upon the opportunity that arose due to _your_ failure to conduct yourself as the trained agent you are purported to be,” Waverly rebuked sternly.

 

Solo felt the slight rise of hot blood in his face, but he said nothing.  The Board had ruled the charges of dereliction of duty and failure to obey a superior officer unsupportable – and that had largely been due to the relevancy of Mr. Waverly’s testimony regarding an incident in his early years as a covert operative – ironically, the same incident Solo was now learning was very much living rather than ancient history.      

 

Like a jigsaw puzzle, Solo was starting to put the pieces together.  “I think I’m beginning to understand now,” he said in a low, thoughtful tone.  “It was your intent to use my Inquest as a means of flushing out Eugen Grunewald.  You did that by testifying about an incident which your superior’s deemed ‘folly’ wherein you disobeyed orders in order to rescue Albert Goering.  Your disobedience in turn, led to a most dangerous, not to mention embarrassing, technological triumph for the Soviets, and tragic consequences for Grunewald and his family, to whom you had a duty to rescue.”

 

Napoleon held Mr. Waverly’s gaze steadily and he did not wait for a response.  He was too caught up in trying to figure out how a plan so simple could have gone so wrong.  “So…instead of flushing out a rat in our midst, I wound up with my career in tatters for a sham of an Inquest,” he said, just a hint of bitterness creeping in.

 

“The Inquest was not a sham, young man,” Waverly said, his voice deadly soft and serious.  “Dr. Phoenix is very much dead, and he died at your hands under questionable circumstances.  Even I cannot change that.”  Waverly shook his head.  “No, Napoleon, if something were to happen to me - if I do not survive Eugen Grunewald’s revenge, you _must_ be ready to take your place as Number One of Section One, with no challenges to your record, no accusers of your moral character to wrest from you the position that should rightfully be yours one day. ”

 

Solo was nearly undone by Waverly’s use of his first name and the carefully chosen words he had used.  The Old Man had never addressed him that way and in doing so, Solo understood that Waverly was communicating a wealth of things that made him feel alternately humbled and chilled to the core.   Alexander Waverly had spoken words that demonstrated a profound regard for him as well words which delivered as close to a genuine apology for what he’d been put through – was in fact, still going through.  Unless Napoleon cleared himself of the wrongful death charge, he would carry that black mark on his career forever and be blocked from resuming his position as CEA. 

 

Napoleon felt the weight of an additional concern.  Waverly, seemingly with his all- seeing eyes, had not mentioned moral character by accident.  It made Solo wonder with dread if Waverly knew about him and Illya?  Had his boss concluded that he loved his Russian partner and in fact, had already expressed that love physically?

 

Solo swallowed convulsively and steadied himself. This situation wasn’t Waverly’s fault.  None of this was his fault.  Recent events and past history had collided and Waverly had made the tough call to deal with them in the best way that he saw.  Whatever he did or did not know about him and Illya, Waverly thought he was the best man for assuming the Number One, Section One’s heavy mantle of responsibility.  

 

Solo looked his boss in the eye.  “Thank you Sir.  Thank you for finally telling me this.” Privately, he thought, _If the son of Dieter Grunewald has indeed infiltrated the ranks of U.N.C.L.E., than I’m going to do everything in my power to find him._

*******

TBC


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively short chapter. It was necessary in order to keep all the action in the next, rather long chapter together. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

*******

 

Illya was sitting up in bed, toying with a rather unappetizing-looking breakfast substance in a bowl when the door to his room began to part until it widened to reveal Napoleon Solo’s head peeking around the door.  Solo smiled.  “You look like you’re feeling better, _Tovarisch_ ,” he said.

 

Pleased, Illya returned a small smile of his own and then he looked away, chafing under the sudden feeling of shyness that enveloped him as memory of recent events flooded his mind.  What must Napoleon think of him with his constant displays of hysterics?  He flushed with embarrassment; nonetheless, he was grateful for the distraction from the breakfast.  Besides, what Napoleon said was true. He was beginning to feel a little better.  His face was no longer bathed in a sheen of uncomfortable sweat, although he could feel a slight fever still lingering. He was still perpetually exhausted, but he felt much more alert and in less pain than he had been in.

 

 “Napoleon.  What are you doing here?  Didn’t you get enough of this place last night?  Or was that this morning?” he mused.

 

“Both, my friend.  It was definitely both,” Napoleon said as he sauntered in.  “I’ve got great news.  My suspension has been lifted.”

 

“Congratulations.  I am pleased, Napoleon.”  From the depths of his exhaustion, Illya felt sincerely happy for the man who was his superior. He hoped that his words adequately expressed that.  For the man who was his lover, he hoped his facial expression conveyed much more.  He didn’t have to ask how Napoleon’s news had come about.  Napoleon would tell him if and when he had time. 

 

In the meantime, Illya’s mind was clear enough for him to see that it was not all good news for his partner, however.  The dark –haired man was hiding a tightly-coiled tension deep inside and it was impossible for Illya, who knew his partner so well, not to see it.  Realization dawned in Illya’s mind and he frowned unhappily.  _Napoleon is not CEA._ This proud, highly skilled man would be forced to work for that blustering fool, Roden - and Roden wasn’t above kicking a man when he was down. “It won’t be easy for you, my friend,” Kuryakin said softly.

 

Napoleon’s face assumed a fake, innocent expression.  “What are you talking about?”

 

Illya snorted in frustration.  Fine, his partner wanted to pretend as if he did not know what he was talking about so he would enlighten him. “That insufferable man pretending to be CEA…Rodent.” Illya watched in amusement as Napoleon choked.

 

“Roden.  The man’s name is Roden,” Solo said between laughs.

 

Illya closed his eyes.  “A rat by any other name is still a rat.”

 

********   

 

The rest of Napoleon Solo’s morning had been most… _interesting._   The vast majority of his fellow Section Two agents had welcomed him back with sincere- sounding expressions of respect – and if he’d read the signals correctly, with relief.  The rumor mill had had time to die down some and the reality of not having Solo as CEA, and having the braggart, Bruce Roden in his place, had had time to sink in with his colleagues. 

 

While Solo had been away from U.N.C.L.E. due to his suspension, talk around the water cooler had been rife with rumors and wild speculation, but all in all, still largely supportive of Solo. Roden of course, upon learning that Solo was to return to work, but not as CEA, had burst into a round of loud cursing before falling silent with a his lips twisted into what passed as a smile. It wasn’t hard to read on Roden’s face his utter disbelief that Solo was to return to work.  The sense of glee and anticipation that fast followed at just how miserable he could make Solo’s life when he was now CEA, was equally as transparent.

 

Roden had set about his self-appointed task with relish – all without achieving the desired result of making Solo lose his cool.  Through all of the snide comments and tasks that were far below the abilities of a seasoned agent such as Solo, Solo remained pleasant, even seemingly appearing preoccupied with other matters that Bruce Roden, as CEA was apparently not privy to.  This infuriated Roden for there was not much more he could do to express his displeasure.  It wouldn’t be tolerated, even among some of the agents who had long harbored secret jealousies against both Solo and Kuryakin.  After a while, Solo’s fellow agents had begun to run interference, offering all manner of distractions to keep Roden away from the other man’s desk.

 

It was shortly before Noon when the phone on the desk that Solo had been relegated to, rang.  Napoleon picked it up immediately when he saw that it was from Alexander Waverly’s office. “Solo here,” he answered briskly.

 

For the second time that day, he heard the voice of Lisa Rogers on the other end.  “Napoleon, Agent Archer is coming around.  Mr. Waverly requests that you meet him in the infirmary at once.”

 

“I’ll be right there.”  Solo hung the phone up and immediately rose to leave, only to come up against the broad side of Agent Roden.  Solo, deftly stepped around the man.  “Excuse me,” he said with exaggerated politeness.

 

“Just where do you think you are going, Mister?” Roden demanded.

 

“I’m going to meet Mr. Waverly in the infirmary.  You could go with me but I’m afraid this party is by invitation only.”  Solo was growing impatient and he’d just about had enough of the insufferable man.

 

Roden grew red-faced and he sputtered angrily, totally ignoring the way his subordinates had grown quiet and were staring at him.  “Wh...What for?” he barked and latched on to Solo’s arm.

 

Napoleon glared at Roden coldly. “Take your hand off me,” he said, his voice low and deadly. 

 

There was a brief stalemate before Roden released Solo’s arm and backed away, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. Solo stepped into Roden’s personal space.  “You are the CEA.  If you want to know why I am meeting with Mr. Waverly, I would suggest that you ask him.  As for me, I’m leaving now and I’ll be back when I’m finished.”  Solo spun on his heels and left, leaving Roden standing there with his audience. 

 

Roden jerked around, eying his fellow Section Two agents in embarrassment.  The nerve of that Napoleon Solo.  Even when he wasn’t CEA he was still Waverly’s boy. A sour taste rose from his stomach and he longed to spit it out on the floor.  Why was everybody standing around looking at him? “Find some work to do or I’ll find it for you!” he barked before stalking off.


	34. Chapter 34

As luck would have it, Napoleon Solo no longer had to rely on the good graces of nurse Peggy Stone to turn a blind eye to allow him to slip into Arnold Archer’s room for a chance to question the injured enforcement agent.  Having dismissed Agent Roden from his mind, Napoleon Solo made all due haste to rendezvous with Mr. Waverly at the infirmary.  Solo cut an imposing figure as he strode down the corridors of U.N.C.L.E. with long, determined strides.  He was not the only person walking in the hallways of U.N.C.L.E. though; the usual number of employees were going about their business, walking to and from various destinations, but whatever Solo’s colleagues saw in his face, it caused one after another to move to the sides as if clearing a path for the former CEA.

 

Solo wondered in what condition he would find Archer.  The injured man was purported to be conscious, but would he also be coherent?  Did the D.C. Enforcement Agent even have any information that would lead to the discovery of Eugen Grunewald, or would the interview prove fruitless?  Solo's thoughts turned to another vexing question concerning a more private agenda.  While he was dedicated to the task of exposing the double agent, the one who Mr. Waverly was convinced had infiltrated their ranks, Solo had no intention of neglecting the matter of Archer’s actions against him. 

 

Solo would indeed see to Mr. Waverly's concerns first, but there was nothing that would keep Solo from also questioning Agent Archer about the D.C. agent’s written testimony.  Archer’s words and why he had written them remained a mystery to Solo to which his professional pride and innate curiosity demanded an answer.  To date, Napoleon had nothing to reconcile the damning, inaccurate testimony that had been used against him during the Inquest with Archer’s seemingly competent, honest character, and the mystery of it still gnawed at his soul.  What Solo deemed to be his misstep in assessing Archer had made him question his ability to correctly discern character in a way far more than the unpleasant discovery of Agent Beam’s true, bigoted, vindictive character had not.   The face that Napoleon Solo showed to all the world, save Illya, was still the one that projected absolute, confidence, bordering on brashness at times, and while Napoleon had been firmly on the road to regrouping, in the privacy of his heart, the eyes that looked back at Solo in the mirror still mocked that projected image from time to time.

 

It occurred to Solo just then in this odd time and place that he couldn’t have been the only one secretly wondering about ability to judge character.  That horrible, soul-eviscerating night when Solo had dug Illya out of his grave with his bare hands, Waverly had also talked with Agent Archer over the phone in the aftermath.  Solo had been exhausted, sitting in Archer’s office, up to his torn tuxedo in black dirt, and drained from the exertions of bringing his partner, his love, back to life.  Archer had been there; competent and compassionate.  Solo had never spoken of it, but he had overheard Archer’s promise to Waverly that he would see to Napoleon’s welfare, as if the Old Man had known all along _exactly_ what Napoleon had been through.  Napoleon quickly sealed off that mental door each and every time he contemplated the possibility that the uncanny Waverly knew exactly what was what when it came to Illya’s and Napoleon’s true regard for each other, but he couldn't help but wonder if Waverly felt he had misjudged Archer as well.  

 

That didn’t stop Napoleon from guessing that Waverly, even with the little contact he'd had, had formed his own opinion about the quality of Archer’s character.  But then Archer had turned around and provided written testimony full of innuendo, half-truths and outright lies.  Here was the first chance both he and Waverly would have to obtain an answer to the question:  why?

 

Solo’s musings accompanied him all the way on his speedy journey to the infirmary.  Having arrived, he pushed through the double doors, turned and preceded down the quiet corridor in the direction of the Critical Care Unit.  He drew near and when he was finally within its confines he saw Mr. Waverly and Dr. Greenberg standing near the nurses’ station.  By the set of Waverly’s head, which was inclined towards the doctor’s, and the set of his bushy brows knit together in a scowl along with the hush tones of words being exchanged, the two were apparently engaged in an intense conversation which Solo surmised concerned Agent Archer. 

 

Solo wisely slowed his steps towards the pair, then halted a discreet distance away.  Napoleon saw Mark Greenberg’s eyes move away from Waverly’s face and glance his way, then with a subtle gesture of head and eyes, Greenberg signaled Mr. Waverly of Solo’s presence.  Mr. Waverly turned and addressed Solo in a tone tinged with amusement and a dash of annoyance. “Ah, wonderful of you to join us, Mr. Solo.  You missed the good doctor’s very stern warning regarding strict orders against upsetting Mr. Archer.”  Waverly graced the doctor with a baleful glare.  “You’d think I mean to run a THRUSH-style interrogation upon the unfortunate, incapacitated fellow.”

 

Greenberg glared right back - only his expression held no hint of secret amusement as had Waverly’s.  “What I think is that you want answers and that you fancy your need pressing enough to make you charge right through the circumstances which should, by virtue of common sense, restrain anyone else.  I repeat, my patient’s mental faculties appear to be intact, but his body has been through serious trauma.  You may question him, but I insist that you keep it short and stop at the first signs of any distress.”   

 

“Yes, yes, of course.  Let’s get on with it, shall we?”  Waverly impatiently assented, apparently no longer amused at all. 

 

Greenberg led the way to Agent Archer’s space in the Critical Care Unit.  The doctor lingered by the door while Solo and Waverly approached the bed where Archer lay with his eyes closed, face pale and slightly drawn.  Waverly leaned over the man and cleared his throat before speaking firmly.  “Agent Archer?  Agent Archer, can you hear me?  Mr. Waverly here.”

 

Archer’s eyelids began to flutter and slowly the man’s eyes opened.  Solo hardly knew the younger agent, yet he still felt relieved to see that Dr. Greenberg was correct:  the orbs were not the clouded, unfocused ones of a man severely buzzed out of his mind on quality narcotics, nor did he look to have suffered any permanent brain impairment.  Despite the fact that Waverly was a leader quite capable of viewing agents as expendable tools, when necessary, Solo could not help but recognize the twin signs of relief in Waverly’s eyes as well. 

 

Archer’s eyes opened wider when he recognized who was standing by his bedside. “Sir?” he rasped hoarsely.

 

Waverly gifted the injured agent with a nod of his head and gentle pat on the shoulder. “You were supposed to take a meeting with me in my office, young man, but instead I find myself having to take the meeting to you.” There was a small delay while Archer processed what he’d heard before he replied.  His fleeting grin was decidedly lopsided.

 

“I’m sorry about that, Sir.”  Solo leaned in to alert Archer of his presence on the other side of the bed. 

 

“It couldn’t exactly be helped, could it?” Solo smile reassuringly down at Archer.

 

Archer’s eyes blinked before they sparked with apparent pleased recognition. “Mr. Solo? How have you been?”  Archer frowned and looked like he was searching his memory for something.  “Didn’t you have…” He fished around for the right question and found it.  “Did the Inquest turn out okay for you?”

 

For a moment, Solo’s lips thinned into a tight expression.  Was Archer unaware of the Inquest and the unfortunate outcome that had left him stripped of his status as CEA - and more to the point, Archer’s own role in his career demise? Perhaps not.  Solo would proceed with caution.  He forced a resumption of the smile.  “I’m fine.  Never a dull moment around here; you know how that is.  Speaking of never dull moments - the police have compiled a report on what they think happened to you based on what witnesses they were able to interview, but can you tell us what you remember about the vehicle that hit you?”

 

Archer grimaced, closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, there were shades of remembered fear and pain in them.  “I remember,” he whispered.  “I remember that I had collected my bags and that I was in the crosswalk, trying to get to the other side where the reserved sedans line up.  I remember that out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white delivery truck coming towards me, very slowly as if creeping along to give me time to cross.  I thought it was going to stop and I didn't think anything of it.  The truck stopped when it came along side me, boxing me in between it and the railing.  All of sudden this taxi comes barreling right out of nowhere and start gunning right towards me.  Next thing I know I was flying through the air." His smile was grim.  "It happened so fast, and all I could think of was, how did THRUSH know I was in New York?”

 

Solo and Waverly exchanged looks.  “THRUSH!” Waverly exclaimed softly.  The head of U.N.C.L.E. peered intently down at Archer.  “What makes you think it was a THRUSH job?” 

 

“I saw his face." Archer closed his eyes wearily and chuckled weakly. "His name is Botticelli and he used to operate a cab in Washington D.C. before he became affiliated with THRUSH's New York operation.  I recognized him from an encounter my partner and I had with him when we were on assignment to protect the daughter of a diplomat from Botticelli’s home country."   Archer’s voice grew softer and he was mumbling now.  He’s a contract killer…does jobs for THRUSH in payment for some immigration ‘red tape’ they helped him through.  Jerry and I… barely escaped his clutches.”  Archer’s voice was starting to grow soft, distant. 

 

_He’s fading fast,_ Solo sighed inwardly.  If he didn’t ask about the written testimony now, he’d have to try again later.  

 

Waverly looked thoughtful, then he spoke quickly, raising his voice slightly.  “Are you certain? You saw his face long enough to identify him?”

 

Archer’s eyes were closed now and Solo thought the man had fallen asleep before he heard a soft, “Yes.”

 

Waverly glanced over at Solo with a knowing expression.  “If you intend to ask him about the Inquest testimony, you’d better get to it.”

 

Solo needed no further prompting.  “Archer,” Solo called. “I need to ask you something.  Are you still with us?”

 

Slowly Archer dragged his heavy-lidded eyes open.  “Still here, Mr. Solo,” he said gamely, though his voice was soft.

 

Solo had pulled forth a copy of Archer’s written testimony and he began reading selected portions of it, all the while observing closely Archer’s face.

 

… _blatant contempt for duty,  flagrant violation of procedures…willfully abandoned his post…forced compliance of subordinate agents through coercion…unseemly display…inappropriate and peculiar behavior…out of control…extreme violence…_ The words he’d read at the beginning had sounded strong and steady, but Solo found his voice getting strangely tight with an emotion he could not name every time he looked at Archer to observe the agent’s face.  In the end, the former CEA heard himself choking out the passages of the testimony until he ceased reading altogether, unable to continue with the damning words. 

 

Conveniently, there was no longer any need to. 

 

All at once, Solo knew the answer.  In Archer’s face, Solo at last found one of the deeply disturbing pieces of the Inquest puzzle, for Archer’s expression had gone from confused, to shocked, and finally to unmistakably outraged.  _Yes!_ Napoleon's heart crowed triumphantly, but he restrained himself from demonstrating any outward sign of jubilation.   He knew without further confirmation from Archer that the D.C. agent's testimony had been a fake. Waverly, Solo noted, did not look in the least surprised - in fact, he looked pleased and rather like a cat that had swallowed the canary.  Solo filed that observation away for later consideration.

 

In the meanwhile, with the last of his remaining strength, Archer grabbed Solo’s arm and spoke vehemently, gasping for breath in between words.  “That… is… n-not my testimony!  That’s… not… what I… w-wrote!”  Archer was shaking, his tired eyes, clearly flaring with anger to hear such ugly, false words attributed to him. He looked on the verge of passing out while various medical monitors began to register protest.

 

Waverly leaned in close, a hard, determined expression on his leathery face.  “What did you do with the document you wrote, before you departed for your mission, young man?” he asked.

 

Archer, now looking quite stressed and on the verge of fainting, squeezed his eyes tight.  “I…I gave it…I gave…Jerry…”  Suddenly the pale face went slack and Archer’s hand, which had grasped Mr. Waverly’ suit label in a desperate grip, fell away like a puppet whose strings had been cut.  

 

Suddenly a nurse and a very angry-looking Mark Greenberg were in the cubicle, unceremoniously shoving Napoleon out of the way.  “This interview is over!  I want the two of you out of here to let this man rest.  I should have known you’d end up stressing my patient!”

 

“We’ll be going now; we have what we need.” Looking mildly contrite, Waverly had the grace to issue an apology before taking his leave, but Solo recognized the sly Continental Chief’s act for what it was. 

 

Apparently so did Greenberg.  The doctor’s uncharacteristically stern expression did not soften, and the muttered words, “I’ll bet,” were audible to the retreating men.

Solo accompanied Mr. Waverly back to the older man’s office, his mind all the while racing as it processed the two new key pieces of information gleaned from interviewing Archer.  First, a THRUSH assassin known to both agents Beams and Archer had tried to take out Archer on his way to his meeting with Mr. Waverly. _How many people knew about Archer’s last minute summons to report to Mr. Waverly in New York instead of heading directly back to Washington?_   Solo was willing to bet that it was a very short list, indeed.  Second, after having given the document to Archer's partner, someone had written and submitted falsified testimony by altering it and affixing Archer’s name to it.

 

Solo could be honest with himself and admit that he was relieved to know that Archer, whom he had thought of as being a decent fellow, had apparently never tried to back stab him as it had appeared for so long. Still, Solo, the focused, disciplined agent had to force himself to put aside his elation and feelings of vindication in order to focus on discovering the identity of the one who _had_ taken a hatchet to his professional career.   As far as Solo was concerned, Beams' name could go straight to the top of a very short list and he was sure that the entire story of how Beams had had access to Archer’s original document, and submitted a false one, would come to light.

 

It had already been established that Beams had lied on the stand, that much Solo knew for certain, but did he really know the reason why?Solo found himself casting about for a motive and coming up with more questions than answers.  He had assumed all along that the seeds of Beams’ malicious testimony on the stand had been sown and watered in soil fertilized by Beams' personal fear and loathing for what Beams thought Solo and Kuryakin were to each other.  Now Solo seriously contemplated the possibility that he had erred in that assumption.  While Solo had no doubts that Beams genuinely loathed him and Illya on a personal level, another possibility was emerging.  What if all of Beams’ actions, the ones Solo knew about, and the ones he now suspected Beams of, had actually been directed by someone or something else?  What if that third player in the game was THRUSH?

 

In the privacy of his own thoughts, Solo finally fully embraced the idea that Waverly’s Machiavellian plans had actually not only been fantastically right, but fruitful as well.  Thought it was not the first time that Napoleon had acknowledged the correctness of Mr. Waverly’s action in taking advantage of Solo’s blunder in the death of Dr. Phoenix.  It was however, the first time he did so without begrudging it.  

Certainly, Solo’s mistake had provided the justification for an Inquest, and the Inquest had provided the bait to lure THRUSH into seizing a rare opportunity to topple U.N.C.L.E., first by ensuring Napoleon Solo’ s elimination from being eligible to someday becoming Head of U.N.C.L.E. New York. 

 

Solo stopped dead in his tracks. 

 

Was U.N.C.L.E. Enforcement Agent Gerald Beams the man long sought by Mr. Waverly?  Could that all-American appearing man actually be Eugen Grunewald,  lost son of Dieter Grunewald, and more importantly, a driven THRUSH double-agent who was out to avenge the wrong Waverly had done to Eugen’s father all those years ago? Excited, Solo contemplated the possibility, his agile mind summoning forth Beams' image.  The age was right…but the eye color was wrong.  Jerry’s eyes -  both of them - were brown, and according to Mr. Waverly an exhaustive check of  U.N.C.L.E. recruit medical records had been conducted.  Presumably, no eye color anomaly had been identified in Beams' medical intake records.

 

“Mr. Solo, why are you stopping?  Are you feeling ill?” Waverly was looking at his former CEA with curious impatience as other agents walked past while politely acknowledging Mr. Waverly’s presence with short, respectful greetings.

 

Solo snapped out of his musings and started walking again.  “No, Sir I’m quite well.”

 

“Well what is it?” 

 

“Not here, Sir. We’re almost to your office.”   Indeed they were.  The elevator into which they stepped quickly deposited them on to Waverly’s floor.  Not long afterwards the men were in Mr. Waverly’s inner sanctum, Waverly ensconced in his chair behind his desk while Solo stood casually to the side, hands jammed in his trousers’ side pockets. 

 

“Someone submitted false testimony under Agent Archer’s name, - testimony designed to permanently damage my professional career and any hopes of one day becoming your successor.  Then a known THRUSH assassin tried to kill Agent Archer on his way to a meeting with you - quite possibly because that someone feared that Archer would discover what had been done with the document Archer had originally written, ” Solo summarized. 

 

“No doubt you have an individual in mind as being the perpetrator of this mayhem?” Waverly inquired expectantly.

 

“Naturally, Sir.  He’s the same individual whom you no doubt are thinking of - Jerry Beams,” Solo answered smoothly. 

 

Alexander Waverly nodded.  “As you were briefed, I had hoped that your Inquest would encourage THRUSH to take advantage of the situation, and in the process, into revealing the identity of Eugen Grunewald.  What you are unaware of is the fact that Mr. Finney and I had discussed concerns regarding the team of Beams and Archer with respect to certain…irregularities in a number of affairs quite some time ago.  The testimony presented during your Inquest only served to heighten my suspicions, and yet,” Waverly frowned, “I admit, I may not have seen the forest for the trees.  With the exception of the attempt on Agent Archer’s life, thus far, THRUSH has been unusually…low-key in their efforts to deal a mortal wound to U.N.C.L.E.”        

 

“That would be true, Sir -  if Jerry Beams is who he claims to be.”  Solo shrugged then moved closer to Waverly’s desk.  “It’s one thing to coerce or bribe an U.N.C.L.E. agent into committing acts of perjury, but if Jerry is actually Eugen, then this could be just the beginning step to something much, bigger.”

 

Solo glanced down at one of the folders prominently placed on Waverly’s desk and easily read the upside down letters that identified it as being from the Medical Department.  He speculated as to its contents and guessed that it was the results of the U.N.C.L.E.-wide intake medical records check.  Solo gestured towards the folder. “May I?” he inquired.

 

Waverly made a gruff noise in his throat and waved his hand in assent.

 

Napoleon began rifling through the folder until he found the compiled report for the D.C. office.  He thumbed through it until he located the entry he was looking.  He tried to hide his disappointment at what he read.  “According to this report, his U.N.C.L.E. physical intake records indicate a young man with 20/20 vision in both of his _brown_ eyes.”  He placed the report back in the folder and put it down regretfully. “He’s not Eugen Grunewald.”  

 

Waverly reached for his pipe, lit it, and took a puff, savoring the sensation of it as though Solo had not put them back at square zero for finding the THRUSH double agent. “The possibility yet remains, Mr. Solo.”

 

Solo tried not to look at his boss as if the man had grown two heads.  “Hm.  What do you mean, Sir?” 

 

Waverly’s sharp, pale eyes held Solo’s gaze.  The Old Man’s lips turned up in a slight smile. “Come, come, Mr. Solo, you are a much younger man than I, but the details of an intake physical, particularly the parts pertaining to the eye examination, have obviously escaped your memory.”

 

Puzzled, Napoleon recalled a time in his past when he was a much younger man, a new U.N.C.L.E. recruit, fresh out of the Army.  He had undergone the standard intake physical at an U.N.C.L.E. facility in Wisconsin.  He recalled nothing special about it, though he knew that his vision had measured at 20/20. 

 

Solo shrugged.  “I’m pretty sure I read from an eye chart.  All I know for sure is that the physician said I had perfect vision.”

 

“Indeed, Mr. Solo.  And that would have been the extent of your eye exam.”  Waverly said no more, preferring to wait for his agent to arrive at the correct conclusion quickly.  He was gratified when Solo did not disappoint. 

 

“So…” Solo mused aloud as he slowly paced, “if I were born with two different colored eyes and I didn’t want anyone to know that, I’d disguise them so that it looked like I had been born with two matching ones.” He stopped his pacing and turned to face Waverly, feeling pleased.  “And if I were Eugen Grunewald and actually working for THRUSH, I’m guaranteed to have the latest, most advanced set of colored contact lenses because I know that if my vision is 20/20 I’d have no worries about a nosey U.N.C.LE. doctor discovering the truth.”

 

“That is a sound theory,” Waverly approved. 

 

“Thank you.  Except…”

 

Waverly frowned.  “Except what?”

 

“Except why did you order an inspection of intake physicals? Were you contemplating a conspiracy theory that included U.N.C.L.E. physicians working for THRUSH?

 

“Certainly not, Mr. Solo,” Waverly reproved. “Our intake physicians have worked for us for many years.  They were all carefully vetted for both qualifications and dedication before being hired. ”

    

“Oh, I see,” Napoleon replied cryptically.  He could not help the small smile that teased at his lips when suddenly, all was made clear:  Waverly’s vast store of knowledge apparently did not include intake eye exam procedures, thus his oversight had resulted in U.N.C.L.E. infirmaries world-wide scouring physical intake records for no reason.

 

“See what? I haven’t the time for riddles,” Waverly answered brusquely. There was no real testiness behind his words, though.  He had been foolish in his demands and he would not deny Solo the small satisfaction of acknowledging that he knew it too.

 

“It’s not important,” Solo said tactfully.  He glanced at his wristwatch.  “Agent Beams will be here in another hour with Dr. Phoenix’s body.  How do you wish to proceed with Beams?”

 

The Continental Chief looked balefully at Napoleon.  “I’m going to do what logic dictates:  keep my U.N.C.L.E. friend’s close, and my U.N.C.L.E. enemies closer.”

 

“May I make a suggestion, Sir?  Don’t confront Beams right away about what we know about Archer’s written testimony.”  Solo was thinking fast, trying to formulate a plan that would uncover the truth.  “I don’t know, just...stall him.  Tell him that Archer hasn’t regained consciousness.  Give me just a little time to prove he and Eugen Grunewald and one and the same.” 

 

Waverly’s features darkened with displeasure, but Solo was right.  First, they had no proof that Jerry Beams was Eugen Grunewald and second, the evidence that he had forged Arnold Archer’s report was compelling, yet still circumstantial.  The most it would earn Beams, at the moment, was a stern reprimand and possible demotion.

 

*******

 

_U.N.C.L.E. New York Head Quarters_

 

  
Jerry Beams and Enforcement Agent David Patterson, the genial New York HQ agent who had met Beams at the airport, rolled the outer casket containing the  exhumed remains of Dr. Phoenix in his original casket into the U.N.C.L.E.  building.  The egress of choice was the building’s second, secret underground entrance rather than through the primary one located in Del Floria’s dry cleaners. 

 

Ever since Patterson had met Beams’ acquaintance at La Guardia, Patterson had gamely tried to make conversation with his colleague, but the D.C. agent had been in no mood for it.  Unbeknownst to Patterson, the two men had walked through the very intersection where Beams’ planned assassination of his partner had been executed, but without having achieved the desired result of Archer’s death.  The geographic reminder of Archer’s current state of being alive, combined with the problem of an unhappy assassin looking for him served to darken Beams’ already dark mood further.

 

From the time they had claimed the casket, all the way to the waiting hearse, and for a time during the trip through Manhattan, Patterson had cheerfully ignored Beams’ chilly reception and plowed on with what he thought was witty, interesting conversation.  Finally, much to Beams’ satisfaction, the other agent’s attempts to foster cordial conversation had begun to taper off, falter, then die off altogether in the face of Beams’ disinterested, mono-syllable responses. 

 

Eventually, they made the remaining way through the U.N.C.L.E. corridors in silence, taking the elevator down until they reached the floor where both the infirmary and morgue were located.  Proceeding through the mortuary double-doors, the men found themselves standing in a cold, cheerless room of bright light, pale-green tile and stainless steel that, thankfully, saw only occasional use.  They had reached the place where the escorted remains would be properly logged-in and relinquished, thus relieving the agents of their escort duty.

 

‘Good riddance,’ Agent Beams thought disdainfully.  He did not fear a second autopsy for he was confident that this one would yield exactly the same incorrect conclusion as to the cause of death that the first one had.  It was highly unlikely that anyone would prove, much less deduce that Dr. Phoenix had died of poison, for the rare and highly-effective compound that THRUSH had perfected was just as undetectable now as it had been at the first autopsy.  Besides, there was little chance that this Dr. Greenberg would ever know that Phoenix had had a false tooth containing poison, and that he, Beams had extracted the tooth from a mouth that was already damaged from Solo’s savage blow.  Beams sneer was an internal thing, but only just.  

 

As soon as the two agents had entered the morgue, they were greeted by a slight woman wearing a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard.  She came out from behind her work station and removed the black-framed glasses.  “Ah, here you are. I’ve been waiting to check in our newest guest!” the woman exclaimed in a chipper voice. Her long, brown hair was pulled back into a braid, setting off eyes that sparkled with the kind of perpetual good humor that Beams loathed.  “I’m Sally Beiderman.”  She grinned at them with an overly-bright smile that seemed at odds with the morgue’s somber, sterile surroundings.      

      

For the first time, Agent Beams’ gaze deliberately engaged the other agent’s eyes to silently communicate a flip and less than kind message:  _This skirt is loony tunes.  Is it this place, or was she born that way?_ Patterson’s raised eyebrow and answering good-natured smirk made Jerry Beams think of a golden retriever that had just been rewarded by a pat from its master’s hand. 

 

Beams hid his disgust. His own partner, Arnold Archer, was the young and affable type too, but at least Archer had been perceptive and mature.  Archer knew how to work without excess chatter and the absurd expectation of any deep, off-duty friendship between them.   

 

_Had been_.  No, that wasn’t right. The corner’s of Beam’s mouth turned downwards.  His partner, much to Beams’ annoyance, still lived. This unpleasant thought brought Beams right back to the first of the two pressing problems he had to deal with.  First, Archer was very much alive and if reports were to be believed, he would eventually make a full recovery.  The second problem was Botticelli and Beams' need to obtain the funds to pay the hit man off - all the while needing to avoid the man’s clutches until he could do so.  While Beams two-day trip to New York conveniently removed him from Botticelli’s radar, it also _inconveniently_ delayed his plans for bedding his way towards the ten thousand dollars with the attractive, Stella Marie Franklin, the Section Chief’s secretary.  Beams thanked his lucky stars that the task of seducing the shapely Stella Marie would neither be odious, nor too challenging.  

 

Now that he had completed his ‘milk run’ assignment by turning over Dr. Phoenix’s remains, he was a mere hair’s breath away from being free to take care of the Archer problem.  There was just one thing he had to do first.  Protocol dictated that as a Section Two agent, temporarily assigned to another Headquarters, he was duty-bound to call upon the head of that Headquarters.  In this case, an obligatory meeting with Number One, Section One of the New York Headquarters would mean that he would come face to face with Mr. Waverly.  He would be forced to shake the hand of the man whom he hated most in the world, the man who had betrayed his father and left his family to suffer at the hands of the Soviets.  He would be standing in Mr. Waverly’s inner sanctum, mere feet away from his enemy, at the behest of said enemy no less.

 

Beams’ mind turned to dark musings then.  He could end Waverly then and there.  Easily.  The vision of the old man’s decrepit body, crumbled lifeless on the floor of his office after he’d broken his neck with a karate chop was like an exhilarating drug.  His pulse raced and his pupils dilated at the mental image. 

 

A moment later Beams forced his clenching hands to unclench and he took a deep breath when he heard Agent Patterson’s voice calling, “Jerry! Pal, are you all right?”

 

Beams felt annoyance at the overly familiar way in which Patterson addressed him, but he buried the emotion under the contrived casualness of his short reply.  “I’m fine.”  He feigned looking at his watch then said, “I have an appointment with Mr. Waverly.  If we’re done here, I’ll be leaving now.”

 

“Of course,” Sally said, looking disappointed, as though Agent Beams had declined an exciting tour of the morgue before she could offer one. 

 

Without another word, Beams retrieved his small suitcase from the compartment underneath the gurney upon which the shell casket rested and departed.

 


	35. Chapter 35

It was mid-morning when Dr. Mark Greenberg emerged from Illya Kuryakin’s room and walked to the nurses’ station where Nurse Lavina Richardson was sitting.  Her head, with its dark hair piled high in an elegant, winding braid, was bent over her admin work.  Greenberg stood at the desk, but his senior nurse was oblivious to the doctor’s presence. 

 

There was a small mystery on Greenberg’s mind - a mystery involving his patient and the suspiciously empty breakfast tray that was in his room.  Greenberg's eyes came to rest on the slightest edge of a red and white checkered cloth-covered wicker basket poking out from underneath the desk.  His nostrils flared when his keen nose caught the slightest whiff of something that smelled deliciously familiar.  His patient’s empty breakfast tray was suddenly no mystery.   Like a Pavlovian response, his mouth watered and his stomach grumbled when he deduced what tempting treats were in the basket.

 

The doctor decided to have a little fun and see if his theory about the relationship of Kuryakin’s empty tray to his senior nurse was valid.  “Nurse Richardson, Mr. Kuryakin’s breakfast tray is still in his room,” he said, by way of announcing his presence. 

 

“Oh.” Caught mildly by surprise, Nurse Richardson looked up from her work and regarded her boss with a professional, but warm gaze. “Well, I’ll be sure and remove it as soon as I finish this report.”

 

Greenberg continued as if he had not heard her. “The tray is empty.”

 

Richardson’s face registered a split second of confusion by the non sequitur before her mouth fashioned itself into a sly shape on her dark, regal-looking face.  “I should hope so.”

 

“It’s like pulling teeth to get Mr. Kuryakin to eat even half of an infirmary breakfast.” Greenberg narrowed his eyes suspiciously and got to the point.  “You brought in some of your fabulous home cooking, didn’t you?”

 

The nurse put up only a half-hearted protest.  “I _may_ have some knowledge regarding a certain nutritious, savory pastry that my mother used to make for me when I was a little girl back in Jamaica.  I happen to know that Mr. Kuryakin is _quite_ fond of them - as are you.”

 

Greenberg grinned then.  Bringing in outside food wasn’t exactly approved  protocol in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, but then again, Kuryakin did not require a restricted diet.  If Lavina Richardson took the time and effort to make a patient something that he enjoyed eating, then it was because the patient would benefit from it, and because the person was special to Richardson.    

 

“That was nice of you, Mrs. Richardson.”  He assumed his most pitiful expression with the aim of achieving certain desired result. “I don’t suppose you saved any for me?”

 

Richardson laughed then. “Of course; for you and Dr. Young, although Dr. Young won’t be in until later. Consider this a small way to celebrate his successful late night surgery.”  She pulled out the wicker basket, retrieved a paper plate and plastic fork from a small box.  Then she served her boss one of the Jamaican pastries she’d made. 

 

Greenberg gratefully accepted the plate and proceeded to enjoy the pastry.

 

Nurse Richardson looked on in amusement at the blissful expression on the doctor’s face.  For his part, the doctor made no effort to halt the small sound of satisfaction that came from him.  He finished the last bite with a flourish. “Thank you, Nurse Richardson,” he said sincerely. 

 

The nurse nodded her head in a gracious gesture.

 

Finished, Dr. Greenberg inquired about and received the latest kidney function, liver function, and blood work results on Kuryakin. He looked them over, calmly noting the less-than-impressive readings.  He had hoped to see a greater reduction of leukcytosis, however; despite the surgery to remove the internal screws, additional debridement of the tibia, and continuous massive infusions of penicillin, Kuryakin’s high white blood cell count had not decreased any further than the readings from four hours earlier.  In addition, a physical examination of the Russian’s leg had revealed swelling and redness still.  No doubt there was still pain as well but it was too early yet to taper off the pain medications to obtain an accurate measurement of bone tenderness.   

 

Nothing about the current state of things surprised the doctor given the virulent strain of bacteria that had infected Kuryakin’s wound, but he had hoped that Russian’s outward rally this morning would be backed-up by blood tests showing the beginnings of an arrested infection.  He had been encouraged by the Russian's well-looking appearance this morning, Unfortunately, Dr. Greenberg’s years of experience and knowledge told him that such rapid improvement was a long shot.  There remained also the lingering threat that the acute bone infection would develop into chronic osteomyelitis, or worse, sepsis. 

 

Raging fever. Intolerable pain. Infection that led to organ-failure.  Greenberg mentally ran through the lists of potential perils to his patient’s health.   Septicemia could easily take down the strongest of men, even a one with a spirit as indomitable as the Russian.  Kuryakin’s current test results were no surprise to the doctor, but his patient’s condition warranted much caution and careful monitoring.  These thoughts Greenberg kept to himself, not wanting to dampen down the moment of celebratory pleasure created by the succulence of Nurse Richardson’s home cooking.     

 

*******

 

“Agent Beams from D.C. Headquarters is here,” Lisa Rogers announced.  It was the second time she’d spoken to get her boss’s attention, so intent upon what he was reading was Mr. Waverly that he had not heard her. 

 

Alexander Waverly closed the file on Agent Beams he’d been examining and with a wave of his hand, addressed his secretary.  “Yes, yes.  Show Mr. Beams in, please, Miss Rogers.”  Rogers disappeared from the door and reappeared momentarily, Agent Beams in tow as they both stepped into Waverly’s office.

 

“Mr. Waverly, this is Mr. Beams,” Rogers said. 

 

If Waverly’s secretary sounded a tad bit frosty to his ears, the Section One Chief  did not remark on it, but merely lifted a thick eyebrow.  He would find out later what had ruffled Roger’s normally unflappable feathers.

 

Rogers exited, sparing her boss a customary respectful look before eyes more unfriendly fell upon Agent Beams.

 

Jerry Beams held out his hand and put on, what was for him, his most wholesome, All-American, smile.  It was his look that he successfully exploited to his advantage because it communicated so many desirable qualities, even when those qualities were actually deficient, or when present, turned to selfish purposes.

 

Jerry Beams had no delusions about how U.N.C.L.E. worked.  He had every reason to believe that his own boss, Michael Finney, would have discussed Beams’ outstanding performance and fast-track rise in Section Two with Alexander Waverly as a matter of collegial interest.  In Beams’ mind, Mr. Waverly should be nothing but duly impressed by Beams’ proceeding reputation. 

 

Indeed Finney had discussed Beams - only Beams had no way of knowing that the team of Archer and Beams had, some time ago, been the topic of discussion with Mr. Waverly due to Finney’s niggling, but unproven suspicions about some of the Affairs the two had been assigned.

 

“Mr. Beams,” Mr. Waverly acknowledged as he shook the younger man’s hand with his own strong, sure grip. “Sit down, please.” 

 

Beams sat.  There was utter silence as Mr. Waverly’s gaze rested on him, appraising him thoroughly.  Beams fought not to twitch under the weight of that stare that spoke of power and knowledge of hidden things.  _He doesn’t know; he couldn’t know._

 

While Beams sat fighting to control his urge to squirm under Waverly’s assessment, Waverly contemplated the young man before him.  He considered everything that Michael Finney had shared with him concerning his agent - successes that seemed miraculous, strings of lucky coincidences, a rapid rise attributed to knowledge that could not be fully explained.  In many ways, the things Finney had questioned could also be said of Waverly’s top team of Kuryakin and Solo, but there was a significant difference:  Waverly trust in the loyalty of his two agents was absolute.  

 

Here before him now was one half of a team that Finney had expressed concerns. This man may could be the son of Dieter Grunewald, if age alone were the deciding factor. Waverly searched the face of the young man, his mind straining to juxtapose the memory of the face of a frightened, war-thin young boy with one blue eye and one green eye, with the face of this agent.  Handsome, manly features, squared jaw, crew cut, white even teeth set in a dynamic smile…and a matching set of intelligent brown eyes.  Were contact lenses cleverly concealing an eye color of a different hue?  It was impossible for Alexander Waverly to determine that just by looking at Beams, and when Beams spoke Waverly had detected no trace of a German accent.  For the first time, Waverly quietly despaired inside.  _This is not Eugen._

Even so, there were other matters to discuss with Beams, other traps to spring.  Beams had committed an unforgivable, heinous offense against Napoleon Solo and for that, Waverly would extract his pound of flesh, but he would do so in due time.  Not yet.  Not now.      

 

The air seemed to grow chilly until finally, Waverly spoke.  “Did you encounter any difficulties while escorting the remains of Dr. Phoenix?” he asked abruptly.

 

Beams’ posture sagged almost imperceptibly in relief.  “No, Sir, none at all.” 

 

“Good,” Waverly replied.  “I trust that you have been shown to your guest accommodations while you are with us here in New York?”

 

“Not yet, Sir, but I’m sure they will be more than adequate.” Beams fixed Waverly with his most earnest-looking expression.  “Frankly, I really only care about seeing to the welfare of my partner.  Please, can you tell me how Arnie is doing?”

 

Waverly tamped down what would have been an undignified snort. “The situation was critical for a time, but his vitals are much stronger now,”  Waverly answered.  “Your partner’s condition is still serious though.  I’m afraid he has yet to regain consciousness.”  The lie was smoothly told and Waverly carefully watched the young agent’s face when he uttered it. “The good news is that my top physician assures me that Agent Archer will be strong enough to be transported back to the medical section at U.N.C.L.E. Washington D.C.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that, Sir,” Beams replied, for once, not actually feigning relief.  _Bastard’s still unconscious and still has no clue about the falsified testimony - no one does._ Archer had not talked, and if he had his way, Archer would never talk about anything to anybody, _ever_ after he got to him.   

 

Alexander Waverly leaned back in his leather chair, looking at the younger man with an appraising eye.  So far, Beams’ expression had told Waverly nothing.  Waverly reached for his pipe and prepared it for his use.  When all was set he once again spoke. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Beams. You are young, obviously bright, and have had enormous success ever since you were assigned to Section Two in Washington D.C..  Since you are here, I’d like to get to know such an up and coming Enforcement Agent, perhaps even discuss making a permanent transfer here to our New York headquarters.”

 

“Of course.  I’m happy to serve wherever I’m needed,” Beams said, secretly amused at the thought of maybe becoming Waverly’s right hand man, while the old fool would never know that Beam’s left hand was poised to strike him down.  Beams fought to keep his amusement to himself.  A smirking expression would never do.  He was going for modesty and could only hope the tone of his voice conveyed that.  He hesitated for effect before adding:  “That’s my file there on your desk, isn’t it?  I couldn’t help but notice. You already know all there is to know about me.”

 

“A man’s life is more than words on sheets of paper, wouldn’t you agree?” Waverly said mildly.

 

Beams nodded, somewhat less amused now.  So Waverly was on a fishing expedition.  So be it.  His cover was rock-solid, thus the Old Man would discover nothing harmful. Still…he wondered just why Waverly was asking.    

 

“So, tell me about yourself, your parents, where you grew up…”

 

And Beams did.  He sat there in the office of the Continental Chief and recited every lie that made up his cover.  The details of such had been burned into his mind during the THRUSH-imposed countless hours of recitation, chemical-resistance interrogation training, speech coaching, document familiarization - all overseen by his handler, Gunther Vogel. 

 

Kindness and consideration had never factored into Vogel’s training methods.  The THRUSH handler had been harsh and unforgiving in the face of any mistakes made on the part of his pupil, just as the Soviet taskmasters had been to his scientist father.  So Eugen had applied his considerable intelligence to quickly learning everything he was taught.  He accepted Vogel’s rare moments of praise when he performed well with equal dispassion as he did the suffering under Vogel’s harsh punishments when he did not.

 

 

In all that time, under Vogel’s strict, sometimes harsh tutelage, it had never occurred to young Eugen that he had merely traded one harsh taskmaster for another.  All that mattered to Eugen’s vengeful heart was the agreement that THRUSH provide all the resources Eugen would need in order to infiltrate U.N.C.L.E. and bring about Waverly’s downfall. 

 

Minutes went by with Beams speaking and Waverly stopping periodically to comment or ask a question or two.  From under Waverly’s poker-faced expression, Beams flawlessly spun his carefully constructed web of lies, without a trace of a German accent to which he’d been born.  He shared the stories he’d rehearsed, all from the ones about his hard-working, blue-collar Methodist parents from Billings, Montana _(In reality, a retired THRUSH couple who would be glad to tell anyone who would listen about their darling boy),_ to the feel-good story about wrecking his bicycle when he was twelve years old, breaking his arm in the process, and afterwards his father having gone out and gotten him a brand-new bicycle from what he called his, “rainy day fund”. _(In reality he’d been beaten viciously by a gang of Russian youth for an old bicycle, and his father had been forced to set the boy’s arm himself.)_   He spoke of Varsity football in games he’d never played, and of his favorite classes at college, of girlfriends he never dated, and drive-in movies he never saw.

 

And when he spoke of U.N.C.L.E. and his reasons for joining it was with the upmost patriotism in his voice.  It was a masterful performance and Beams expertly deflected all of Waverly’s considerable elicitation skills to keep his background cover intact. 

 

When Beams thought that he’d shared enough he stopped.  He cast down his eyes in false modesty.  “I don’t want to bore you with all of this talk about myself.” 

 

Waverly quite agreed.  So far he hadn’t been able to detect anything that he could challenge without requiring further analysis first.  He decided to change the topic of the interview.  “I understand that you have not seen your partner since Mr. Solo’s Inquest.  Had you a chance to look in on him?”

 

“No Sir.  I haven’t seen Arnold since he left for his latest assignment.  I reported here directly from dropping off the body at the morgue.”  He paused, as if musing upon the dark capriciousness of Fortune.  “What a thing to have happened to Archer on the way to returning state’s side from an overseas mission.”

 

“Indeed,” Waverly answered, his face impassive.  Time to conclude the interview. Waverly was a busy man and he, like a grandmaster of chess, he had pieces on the board awaiting movement by his command.  Solo was his knight in this regard. 

 

Time to move the valued chess piece again.

 

*******

 


	36. Chapter 36

Solo hid his surprise behind a fake cough.  “I’m to go where?” he asked, knowing full well he’d heard Mr. Waverly correctly the first time. Waverly whirled around from where he’d been standing by the window whose expanse afforded him a view of the United Nations building.   By the glower in his eyes, Waverly was in no mood for nothing short of sharp competence. 

 

Indeed, Alexander Waverly was not.  His fruitless interview with Agent Beams had left him feeling frustrated and his aged body feeling every one of his years.  He felt that he was no closer today in discovering the identity of Eugen Grunewald, yet he was unable to shack off a nagging feeling that his many years on the Earth had taught him never to ignore.  The young man may not be the grown son of Dieter Grunewald, sent to infiltrate U.NC.L.E. and wreck havoc upon the organization but, by his deeds, he had already proven himself to be an enemy of U.N.C.L.E..

 

“I said I want you on the first plane to Washington D.C..  You will find out where Mr. Beams resides and then you will conduct to top to bottom search of it while Mr. Beams is occupied here, and report to me on your findings.  Is that plain enough for you?”

 

Solo instantly stood a little straighter in response to Waverly’s sharp tone.  “Of course, Sir.  I’ll make arraignments to leave right away.” And he would, of course, but he had one important stop to make first.  He would not leave New York without having first looked in on the most important person in the world to him, one Illya Kuryakin.

 

 

*******

 

At 11:00am Dr. Mark Greenberg gloved, gowned, and masked stood over the autopsy table upon which the mortal remains of Dr. Manheim Phoenix rested. Everything was made ready; the tools he needed were all laid out neatly in place.  The doctor was a still figure in silent contemplation as his eyes swept over the rotting corpse, carefully observing the decomposing remains before he would subject it to vigorous microscopy and laboratory analysis.   

 

This was by no means his first post-mortem examination, nor would it be his last, but it was rare that circumstances dictated the need for autopsies at U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters. Greenberg looked upon what was left of the THRUSH scientist, not with the tide of unprofessional, emotional response that may have waylaid Dr. Hockert, but with the detached, scientific curiosity required of duty and expected of one of his profession.  

 

Long before today, Dr. Greenberg had been made aware, through the grapevine, that Dr. Hockert’s conclusion was that Dr. Phoenix’s death was  caused by traumatic Spondylolisthesis of the C2’s, 'Hangman's Fracture' as it was known in the vernacular.   Naturally, Greenberg had been quite eager to read through the report detailing Dr. Hockert’s autopsy results for himself.  Having done that, Dr. Greenberg had noted, with no small measure of professional dismay, the ‘irregularities’ that had raised enough of a red flag for Alexander Waverly to have granted Mr. McKinney's motion for exhumation. 

 

Greenberg’s next move had been to ask for and receive a copy of the Inquest transcript.  It had been a late, quiet evening at home when he’d gone into his study, settled into his leather recliner with a glass of red wine, and embarked on a private presentation of what had occurred during Napoleon Solo’s Inquest.  The drama of it all fascinated the doctor.  Each person’s testimony came alive in his mind as he read each word that had been exactly transcribed - none so more than the testimony of Mr. Waverly, and that of Mr. Solo. The doctor had found himself paying particularly close attention to the events as described by Solo. 

 

Dr. Greenberg realized that, of course, having such an enthralling transcript, which gave direct insight into events to read before performing the initial autopsy was something Dr. Hockert had not had the benefit of, but he had learned long ago to seek the truth of a matter from all of the available pieces of evidence, not just the ones that could be put through stringent chemical analysis.  Either Solo’s version of events would be contradicted by this new medical examination, and Solo’s violent blow had separated the scientist’s head from his shoulders, resulting in Hangman’s fracture, or objective, scientific inquiry would support the theory that Phoenix actually suffered from a congenital abnormality. 

 

Greenberg was no fool.  He knew Alexander Waverly well enough on a personal level to know that the U.N.C.L.E. head may very much wanted there to be a differential diagnosis to rule out Hangman’s Fracture, but Waverly would never command nor tolerate any compromise of integrity.  As for his own feelings, regardless of his awareness that, for good or ill, his conclusions would impact the career of Napoleon Solo, whom he very much personally liked, Greenberg’s devotion to the purity of science meant that he had a job to do and he would do it to the best of his ability, without regard to Solo’s career.      

 

Greenberg flipped the switch to his recording device.  “The time is 11:05am. The second autopsy on the remains of Dr. Manheim Phoenix, as ordered by the Convening Authority for the Inquest of former Chief Law Enforcement Agent, Napoleon Solo, and conducted by Doctor Mark Greenberg, Senior Medical Officer at Headquarters, U.N.C.L.E. New York, has commenced,” he intoned.

 

One quarter of the way into the autopsy, Dr. Greenberg had noted a few things that looked good for Solo’s case.  Not long afterwards he’d also experienced the oddest sensation that had come out of the blue, and was gone again.  It was like the mutest of feelings, like a vague whisper, that he’d missed something.  He’d stopped then, reexamined his steps, and having found nothing amiss, continued on.

  

At the half-way point, what he began seeing induced feelings of heightened curiosity.  

 

Three-quarters of the way through, the niggling sensation at the back of his mind returned and this time it was followed by a synthesis of memory, current observation, and knowledge. To his scientific delight, Dr. Greenberg had uncovered a new mystery and discovered, in part, an answer. 

 

Two hours after he'd begun, and after he’d examined an excessive number of developed x-ray films, Dr. Greenberg smiled.   

 

*******

 

In Illya Kuraykin’s room in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, Napoleon Solo looked at his partner, a slightly exasperated expression on his face.

 

“I do not like this,” Kuryakin said, for the third time since hearing that Napoleon was packed and off to catch a flight to Washington D.C.. 

 

Napoleon had little time before he needed to leave for the airport so he had quickly brought Illya up to speed on not only what Jerry Beams was believed to have done with Arnold Archer’s written testimony, but whether or not it was even possible for Jerry Beams to be Eugen Grunewald. 

 

Illya’s reaction to the latest developments and to Solo’s announcement that he was off to Washington D.C. had not been what Solo was expecting.  Fretting over something so non-dangerous as this was not like the Russian, Napoleon observed.  This mission, if one could call it that, wasn’t even a real mission, per se. It was more like a boondoggle to get out of town.  Not that he couldn’t use some time out from under Agent Roden’s over-bearing  personality, thought Napoleon.  Breaking into a fellow agent’s apartment for the purpose of carrying out a broad search, carried with it, absolutely zero danger - especially when the whereabouts of the renter of said apartment were known and guaranteed not be anywhere near at the same time that Solo was there.  Nonetheless, Illya Kuryakin seemed to be uncharacteristically uneasy.

  

Solo eyed his partner more closely. He was ashamed to admit, he hadn’t done so when he first entered Kuryakin’s room.  His mind had been preoccupied with all manner of things ranging from the task Dr. Greenberg was performing on the very same floor, to his knowledge that his enemy, Jerry Beams, who could also be Eugen Grunewald, was roaming the halls of U.N.C.L.E..   In addition, Solo knew he was pressed for time and that he needed to get to the airport to catch his flight to D.C. 

 

But now he observed Illya and what he saw puzzled more than concerned him.  The slight Russian appeared restless in the bed.  His body seemed to have too much energy coursing through it so that he was fidgeting constantly, unable to be still, long fingers moving, drumming an impatient rhythm.  Emotionally, Illya seemed agitated.  Solo frowned at this riddle.  The middle-of-the-night surgical procedure had gone well, he’d been assured.  The high fever that had dogged Illya for days had dropped dramatically, and the listlessness had gone, only to be replaced by this…this bundle of nerves.  Perhaps Illya’s rally had the reserved Russian feeling once again, too keenly, his confinement.

 

Napoleon ignored the bedside chair and sat down at the edge of the bed.  “There’s nothing to worry about, _Tovarisch,”_ Solo attempted to assure. “While Beams is up here, I’ll be down there.  I’ll be back tonight and we can have dinner together.  Relax. What could possibly go wrong?”

 

“This is _you_ we are talking about, Napoleon.  You attract trouble the way roadkill attracts flies,” Illya said, without a trace of his normally dry, but good humor.

 

Solo was momentarily taken aback.  He tried again, “I think you need something to occupy your mind.” 

 

Illya finally stopped tapping a soundless beat upon the crisp sheets, and he looked at Napoleon with blue eyes, tinged with a little wariness, but at least no longer unnaturally bright from high fever. “Such as?” he asked, his voice a little on the sharp side.

 

“Well, uh…”  Napoleon thought quickly.  “I know it’s been killing you to not be able to help me out of this mess I’ve gotten myself into, so maybe if I gave you a copy of the Inquest transcript you could go over it with a fine tooth-comb.” 

 

“To look for what?” Kuraykin asked, sounding peevish.

 

“I don’t know,” Solo said grimly.  He shrugged in frustration, though he tried to hide it.  Illya certainly _looked_ better, but he was acting strangely.  He had no idea how to advise Illya.  Alistair McKinney had all but promised the second autopsy while challenging Napoleon to bring him other evidence that would clear him of a wrongful killing. That charge was always on his mind, driving him, always there eating away at his peace of mind.  It also hadn’t helped that CEA Roden had had him under his thumb, hampering his ability to pursue his own case - that is, until now. 

 

Now he had a chance to go, to see, to investigate Beams, but part of him feared that at the end of the day, no matter what he did, everything hinged on what Greenberg would or would not find, not whether or not Jerry Beams was actually Eugen Grunewald.  He was sure of his ability to do everything in his power to find the truth, but he was not sure that the truth tomorrow, or the next day or year, for that matter, would somehow be different from the truth that existed now.  If that was to be the case, his career would still be toast and Illya would no longer be partnered with him.

 

*******

 

There was silence as Illya, in a reversal of roles, studied Napoleon.  After having awakened to the welcomed sensation of high heat abated, the constant agony that was his leg, despite the dosages of morphine, dulled, and the tired, achy feeling that had plagued him, lessened, he had begun feeling terribly out of sorts in the most mystifying of ways that he could not explain.  This feeling had only worsened as the day progressed.

 

It was more than just feeling utterly useless when the man whom he loved had needed him.  It wasn’t the oppressive weight of his confinement to the hospital bed being keenly felt. He felt odd, as if unfamiliar with the inner harmony of his own body. He was unable to relax, his body jittery with the low hum of some kind of nervous energy that had no obvious source.  The sensation was more like a feeling that every cell in his body was screaming at him to get up and just… _move,_ flee this place.       

 

He was showing signs of improvement.  Everybody said so.  He was told he needed rest; to relax and stay in bed.  The latter he could do because he was tethered to the bed, the former he found impossible.  He’d grown irritated, anxious and he’d taken his run away emotions out on Napoleon right before his smart, courageous, and still emotionally stressed partner was getting ready to leave New York to accomplish a task that any precocious child could do.

 

Illya closed his eyes but he still saw Napoleon Solo.  Napoleon looking worried.  Napoleon appearing to no one else's eyes but Illya’s, stressed and chafing against his professional confinement just as much as Illya was against his medical one.  Napoleon needed to go see about his task with the knowledge that his partner was better and would be waiting for his return, not unwell and indulging in fits.  The Russian sighed dolefully.  When he opened his eyes again it was to a new focus, a new mission to take his mind away from his own passing discomforts. “Napoleon,” he said softly.  “I know you have to go now.  Ask Mark to deliver the transcript to me and I will see what information I can get out of Dr. Greenberg concerning the autopsy results.”

 

Before Solo could answer there was a bold knock on the door to Illya’s room and a head with a mop of dark-blond hair peeked itself around the corner.  “Is it a party for two, or can anybody join?”  The teasing, distinctive, British-accented voice belonged to none other than Mark Slate. 

 

Illya watched, faintly amused, as Napoleon's worried expression turned into an expression which clearly said, ‘think-of-the-devil-and-he-will-come’.  Ignoring the look on his partner's face, Illya waved Mark in. 

 

Mark’s gaze took in the scene and his sharp eyes saw enough to know that he had interrupted.  He grinned.  “Sorry boys, I heard Napoleon had orders to Washington D.C. and I figured he was on his way to the airport.”

 

Napoleon shot Mark a half-hearted, withering look and he grumbled, but without any real conviction.  “So you made a beeline over here the minute you thought I was out of town?”

 

Mark laughed affably but he was only half-kidding when he quipped, “Don’t be ridiculous, old boy.  I’m still on the same team I’ve always played on.  I’ve just come to see if Illya needed anything.”              

 

“Thanks for coming,” Napoleon said in a low voice that did not go far enough to hide an unexpected sense of genuine relief to be leaving Illya in Mark’s company. 

 

Illya turned his gaze to Mark.  “I have some new technical journals that should have come in the mail.  Could you please go to my apartment and bring them to me?”        

 

“Sure, mate.  I can do that,” Mark readily agreed.

 

Napoleon checked his wristwatch. “I’m out of time. I’ve got to get to the airport.” Solo then looked over at Mark with an expression that Illya easily read as, ‘take care of my partner’.  Mark’s answering nod of assent was a subtle thing.  

 

Napoleon stood up and gazed down at Illya.  “I’ll see you later.  Tell Mark what I told you about Jerry Beams.” 

 

The sight of Napoleon making ready to leave served to reignite Illya’s fierce restlessness and general uncomfortable feeling of disquiet.  He wanted more than anything to reach out and touch Napoleon’s hand, to caress those tanned, chiseled features, cup the side of his strong face and pull his lips down to bestow a kiss upon their sensuous texture.  Kuryakin did none of those things.  He simply continued drinking in the sight of Napoleon Solo in silence.

 

Mark Slate suddenly and discreetly found something, somewhere else to look, gifting his two friends with a small illusion of privacy. 

 

“I’ll see you later,” Napoleon said softly. 

 

“See that you do,” Illya replied earnestly, and in his mind’s eye he saw Napoleon bending swiftly, touching his lips to his to kiss him.  Then the vision, exactly like Napoleon, was gone in a flash.

 

Illya possessed enough self-control not to stare pathetically after the closed door.  Instead he turned his attention towards his visitor while at the same moment, Mark turned around, snagged the bedside chair, and sat down.  The two men talked for a time, with the Brit doing most of the talking.  Illya, for his part, tried to listen and control his strange-feeling restlessness at the same time.  When Mark complained about having Roden as his boss, Illya tried his best to commiserate appropriately. When Mark talked about the new case he and April had just started, Illya focused hard on staying engaged in the conversation.  He’d never had that much difficulty before in commanding his mind and ordering his thoughts, and very soon he grew tired from the strain of the effort.  It wasn’t long before his body followed in protest.

 

The muscles in Illya’s injured leg were spasming slightly and the Russia rubbed at the limb absently while he conversed with Slate.  

 

Mark was talking about the latest communicator upgrades, but when Illya suddenly winced the other man spoke up. “Please.  Allow me...”  It was clearly a question as Mark indicated with his hand that he wished to touch Illya’s leg.

 

For a moment, Illya looked dubiously at Mark.  Then he said, “You are taking over Napoleon’s duties seriously,” he noted, and his eyes offered a faint smile for the British agent. 

 

Mark commenced maneuvering his long, slim fingers around the brace that aligned Illya’s leg on both sides until he could move his fingers in an expert, massaging motion upon the limb which Illya held tensely.  Kuraykin grimaced, but after a while the tightness gripping the muscles in his face eased, causing him to sigh in relief and close his eyes. 

 

Mark smiled a cocky grin.  “Is that better?”

 

Illya kept his eyes closed and sighed.  “Yes.  I find it most...therapeutic. Thank you.”  He smiled slightly then at the memory of a certain young Potentate,  the word, ‘therapeutic’ evoked.  Mickey, the ruler Illya had been assigned to protect, was an extraordinary boy, who at ten years of age, was more than a man than many adults Illya would ever know. 

  

“Glad to help,” Mark said simply.

 

About an hour after Napoleon Solo had left, Mark too took his leave of Illya.  The Brit rose to his feet and looked down at Illya.  “Get some rest then.  I’ll be back with your fresh set of reading materials later,” he said.

 

Illya didn’t bother opening his eyes, but merely raised a hand in acknowledgment.

The sound of the door opening and softly clicking shut, and the slight sensation of a cool, draft of air signaled to the Russian that he was alone again.  Silence and emptiness settled over the room in the wake of Mark Slate’s departure, and it was both a blessing and a curse to Illya whose peculiar agitation seemed to flair anew. 

 

After an unbearable time of each minute seemingly crawling by as though an hour, and Illya struggled to find refuge in sleep from the strangeness he was feeling, sleep came at last.  It was not a peaceful sleep.  Kuryakin dreamt odd dreams of Napoleon; Napoleon in danger, Napoleon partner-less with no one to watch his back.  The disquieted Russian dreamt of a strange pair of devil-red eyes that changed to brown and then in a bizarre twist, to one blue, one green.   

 

*******

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome!


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an old MFU art favorite! My first and only collaboration with highly talented author, Jazline. I drew the original pencil drawing and Jazline used her computer art magic to colorize the cover art for a comic book look! It's been a long time since Jazline has written an MFU fic. She's one of the best writers around. Sure would be cool if folks gave her a shout-out to let her know you have enjoyed her stories and would welcome some new ones. Might just be the perfect inspiration!

 

 

Inside the walls of U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters, the infirmary’s two patients, Arnold Archer and Illya Kuryakin, slept, each man fighting his own battle for recovery.  Meanwhile, in the world outside, three men waged individual battles of a different sort. 

 

Jerry Beams, for one, was busy mentally arming himself by getting to know the lay of the land in Section Two.  That morning he met CEA Bruce Roden and the men, being two of a kind in many ways, hit it off right away.  Beams skillfully eased his way into Roden’s confidence with artful flattery and subtle put downs to Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. 

 

Beams never stopped thinking about, and strategizing over the other matter that had brought him to New York:  when and how to take care of Archer.  That  problem was a top priority now that he was fairly confident that he’d completely fooled that useless old man upstairs during that silly interview.  And then there was that annoying gnat, Botticelli, who, if left unchecked, could become much more than just the current nuisance he was.  Beams was certain that Botticelli would have gone to D.C. looking for him.  His coming to New York would only fool the assassin for a short time.  Timing was everything.  He’d go back to Washington D.C. while Botticelli would come to New York looking for him.  In this manner of being always ahead and out of Botticelli’s reach, Beams hoped to buy sufficient time to be able to enact his seduction plans in order to procure the necessary funds from the U.N.C.L.E. female in order to pay off Botticelli at a time and place of Beams’ choosing.

 

Jerry Beams was not the only one plotting and scheming though.  The agent’s prediction regarding what the assassin Botticelli would do proved true, for at the same time the double agent was contemplating how beautifully a touch of the same poison that had killed Phoenix would also take care of Archer, Botticelli was lying in wait for Beams inside the agent’s apartment. 

 

Botticelli had first attempted to intercept his quarry as Beams reported to work at the U.N.C.L.E. building. Unfortunately, the assassin had waited in vain for he never saw Beams at all.  However, he’d not counted it strange that he had apparently missed Beams’ arrival at U.N.C.L.E. via the photographer’s studio.  He knew agents often worked long and unpredictable hours, even working through the night, when necessary.  Botticelli reckoned that it was very possible he had not seen Jerry Beams arrive because the man was already inside and had simply never left. 

 

No matter Botticelli had thought after two and a half hours of waiting.  He’d smiled a particularly shark-like grin, sharp and deadly, as he turned his efforts towards finding out where the man lived.  Oh how he would cherish the look of shock that would cross the agent’s face when he would spring out at Beams from inside the man’s own apartment.  Botticelli’s expression turned grim when he thought about the many varied ways he could extract from Beams what was his due.      

 

In another part of the country, a third man was busy strategizing and making counterplans too.  Napoleon Solo, who was deep in thought, flew amongst the clouds, a passenger in a commercial plane headed towards Washington, D.C. 

 

Solo was not without company on the plane; it was more than half full of fellow commuters desiring to go to the Nation’s Capital.  Among the passengers, was a  recently divorced mother, young and pretty and her precocious toddler son.  She and the youngster occupied the seat directly across from Solo.   

 

Solo was aware, as he always was, that a lovely female was eying him with friendly interest, but it was a peripheral awareness only.  The man that once would have turned his considerable charm and white smile on for the purpose of shameless flirting for the art of it, did not, as both his mind and his interest lay elsewhere.  At the moment, the best Solo felt like mustering up was a distracted smile and nod of his head to acknowledge the woman’s presence.  Even the child’s endearing attempts to attract his attention met with failure for Solo’s thoughts were busy contemplating several things at once. For one, he was trying to quiet the nagging voice that told him that his partner had not been himself and that it was a sign not to be taken lightly, though he could not fathom why.           

 

Solo shook his head as if to shake the thoughts of Illya from his mind.  In any event, flying high in the air in a plane carrying him out of New York on a mission, there was nothing he could do about the mystery of Illya’s condition.  Solo turned his head and stared out the window, thinking.  He had all the tools he needed to gain access to Jerry Beams’ apartment to include the address and the finest lock-picking tools U.N.C.L.E. engineers could invent. It was only a matter of searching and finding something, _anything_ that would prove, once and for all, Jerry Beams' identity.  A hard, determined expression settled on the masculine face.  He would do just that.  For Waverly’s sake; for his sake, he would.

 

The chess pieces were all in play.

 

 

*******

 

The next time Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes, it was later in the afternoon.  He’d been allowed to sleep through lunch and a nurse had thoughtfully left the tray, consisting of an assortment of fruit chilling on a bed of ice, along with some cheese and nuts, on the bedside table.  Kuryakin looked around and saw the evidence that Mark Slate had kept his word and come and gone, leaving two new scientific journals and the transcript of Solo’s Inquest.

 

His eyes widened with interest and he instantly forgot his body’s discomfort, which did not seem to be lessening in the least.  Not only had Napoleon asked him to read over the transcript, but here was his chance to know exactly what had gone on during the Inquest, in the next best way, since he had missed most of it.  Being unable to help Napoleon during such a stressful time, had irked him to his core, yet even now he had no idea if he would find anything that would be of use for Napoleon's case, or if he would merely end up passing the time in a more interesting manner.

 

Grateful for the distraction, the food too was forgotten as Illya eagerly reached for the transcript and began reading.     

 

*******

 

In Washington D.C., Botticelli stalked the streets working his own network of unsavory contacts and THRUSH minor associates to find the home of one Jerry Beams.

 

After having patiently surveilled the photographer’s studio where the secret entrance to the headquarters was located without having seen Beams, he had realized his plan for 'inviting' the other man to a business meeting had gone astray.  In the process of waiting, the THRUSH hit man had gone from feeling severely annoyed to dangerously enraged.  Did the little prick think he could avoid him by not showing up to work?   The same predatory instincts that had served Botticelli so well as a hired assassin were on full alert the longer he had to search for his prey.  Above all, Botticelli wanted his money, but what payment he couldn’t get in cash, he’d get in blood.  Botticelli was a natural-born killer, and per his nature, he enjoyed killing.  If Beams persisted in this nonsense, then Botticelli would not hold himself responsible for Beams’ unplanned death, if it came to that. 

 

It never crossed his mind that THRUSH would.

 

“Botticelli.  What’s a New York City taxi driver doin’ prowlin’ around The District?”  The sound of a voice, rough from too much alcohol, said.  The voice, close to Botticelli’s ear made him jump and his heart race.

 

“Fuck you,” Botticelli growled at the newcomer when he turned around to see the man who knew many things he had no business knowing. How the hell had the man managed to sneak up on him like that?  The smell of stale booze alone should have long heralded the man’s presence. The man, whose name was Bruno Sellers, smiled showing a mouth full of decay.

 

“Not today, Botticelli, but I have something else you want, says the word on the street.” 

 

“Where?” Botticelli demanded.  “Where does that little snake, Jerry Beams live?”

 

“I have the address,” Sellers stated and smiled a nasty grin.  “Up here,” and he tapped his forehead with his finger.

 

Botticelli growled low in his throat, reached in his pocket for his wallet, and fished out a few bills.  “Here.”  He thrust a wad full of cash at the man and Sellers accepted it with a grunt. 

 

His greed and his need satisfied, Seller proceeded to relay the home address to an impatient assassin.

 

******** 

 

 

Napoleon Solo casually walked up the steps to the second floor of the modest garden-style apartment building nestled away not far from Dupont Circle in Washington D.C..  The apartment he sought was located at the end of the hall and Solo was pleased to find it quiet and empty. 

 

When he reached number 209 he stopped.  He had arrived at Jerry Beam’s apartment.  Solo reached into the pocket of his trench coat and brought out his case of lock-picks.  After looking around to ensure he was unobserved, he quickly selected the appropriate tool and made short work of opening the lock and slipping inside. Adrenaline, coursing through his system, he swiftly and skillfully disabled the interior alarm.  Only once that was accomplished did Solo lean against the closed door and coolly assess his surroundings. His gaze swept over the living room, noting the fine leather sofa, elegant curtains, tasteful paintings, and bookshelves filled with many volumes.  The place, small though it was, spoke of a professional designer’s touch, of sophistication, and of money.  Solo let out a soft whistle.  Jerry Beams, Solo concluded, had excellent tastes - tastes that did not appear to be wholly supported by an U.N.C.L.E. Section Two agent’s salary.  

 

Quietly, he proceeded further into the living room in the direction of a massive book shelving unit made of heavy, solid wood.  The unit had several small drawers on the bottom half.  With black-gloved hands Solo pulled out the first drawer and began to rifle through a stack of papers, consisting of nothing more than mundane bills.  He quickly examined them and having found nothing, unusual, Solo put them back.  Each drawer in succession yielded nothing in the least scandalous or sinister either so he moved to the books and began to methodically check each one.

 

He was in the middle of thumbing through and edition of Faulkner’s _The Sound and the Fury_ when he stopped cold.  Suddenly the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his senses went on full alert, warning him that he was not alone. It was too late though.  Before he even had a chance to turn around or reach for his weapon, he felt something swish over his head and catch at his throat.  Immediately the object, which was a leather belt, began to tighten, cutting off Solo’s air supply.  Napoleon’s eyes went wide as he gasped and fought with desperation to jam his fingers between the belt and his neck.  The tip of one finger went under the belt and went no further.  Solo continued to desperately struggle to force the belt off of his neck, but the body behind him was strong and gave no quarter.

 

Lights began to dance in Solo’s eyes and his vision began to tunnel.  He knew he was moments away from passing out and if he allowed that to happen, he would be taken to his death by the unknown assailant. His reflexes and training took over then and like the dangerous, skilled agent he was, Solo, in one mighty heave, dropped to one knee, hunched his body forward and flipped the man holding the belt right over his head.  The man flew through the air and yelled an obscenity as he crashed hard on his back on the floor.  The man lay momentarily stunned next to the green sofa before survival instincts kicked in and the would-be-murderer attempted to get up.  Solo was faster though and kicked the man back down, thus gaining the advantage. Swiftly, Solo slid behind the man and hooked his legs over the assailant’s to pin the man in place.

 

In a brutal reversal of fortune in this fight to the death, Solo got the belt around the man’s neck and began applying pressure. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right, pal?” Solo hissed angrily from his swollen, painful throat.  God how his throat burned as if on fire!  “Who are you?” Solo demanded in a harsh croak.   The man declined to answer.  He was strong and he continued to struggle, but the man’s strength was no match for Napoleon Solo, who was at the peak of physical fitness and conditioning.  Solo repeated his question and this time, he tightened the belt a bit until the man began to flail and choke before Solo loosened it again.

 

“Last time.  Who are you?  What’s your name?”

 

The man, apparently having placed a higher value on oxygen, sputtered out, “Botticelli! My name is Gianni Botticelli”.  

_Botticelli….Botticelli…where do I know that name?_ Solo’s quick mind was capable of retaining many names and faces - especially those connected with THRUSH, but it was the recent memory of a conversation with Agent Archer  whence Solo drew forth the answer - and was so shocked he almost loosened his grip on the man.  “Botticelli!” Solo hissed angrily.  “You tried to murder Agent Archer.  You are a part-time THRUSH assassin, wanted for murder in the Old Country, yes?”

 

“You know nothing about me, and I don’t know you, either!” Botticelli gasped out angrily.

 

“Mmmm…well, JohnnyBoy, let’s you and I get better acquainted, shall we?” Solo rasped as he deftly pulled out a set of handcuffs, along with his weapon and eyed the nearest thing to which he could secure Botticelli.  The leg of the heavy wooden book shelf would do just fine, Solo concluded.  Keeping his hand wound securely around the belt, Solo rasped out instructions.  “Here’s how we’ll do this.  You’ll take the cuffs and fasten one of your writs.  Then I’ll fasten your other wrist to the leg of that bookshelf next to you. Just try to get away and I promise to kill you.  Deal?” He tightened the belt for emphasis until Botticelli frantically nodded his head and did as he was instructed.

 

Solo slowly, without letting go of the belt, inched his way around Botticelli’s body so that he could secure the other hand.  Seeing his opening, Botticelli struck out with his legs, attempting to flip Solo, but again, Solo was too fast, having anticipated such a move.  Having no other choice, Solo delivered a quick karate chop and knocked the hit man unconscious.   Solo sat for a minute, rubbing his raw, aching throat before he man-handled the free arm of the unconscious body into the other cuff. 

 

Solo studied the man for a moment before he reached for his communicator pen and activating it to an U.N.C.L.E. Washington D.C. Headquarters channel. “Open channel G,” he said softy.

 

Seconds later a female voice replied, “Channel G open. Identify yourself, please.”

 

It hurt to talk and Napoleon steeled himself for the pain. “This is Enforcement Agent Napoleon Solo.  Send Security over to Jerry Beam’s residence.  I have a ‘package’ they need to collect and deliver to Interrogations”. 

 

“Roger that, Mr. Solo.”  The voice seemed to hesitate for a moment.  “Are you all right, Mr. Solo? Do you require an ambulance?” 

 

“I’m fine.  Nothing that some hot tea with honey wouldn’t fix.”  Solo hoped he wasn’t lying because his throat was killing him. He felt sorely tempted to pull his  trachea out with his bare hands.

 

“Very well, Mr. Solo.  Welcome to Washington D.C.,” the feminine voice replied.

 

Welcome indeed.  Solo grinned in spite of himself.  “Solo out.” 

 

 

*******

 


	38. Chapter 38

*******

 

Some two and a half hours after Dr. Mark Greenberg started the autopsy on the remains of Manheim Phoenix, Greenberg finished dictating the last of his conclusions into the recorder.  He pushed the button to shut off the device, and with a feeling of satisfaction, leisurely finished his cup of coffee. The remains of Manheim Phoenix had been properly resealed for transport and all that was left to do was to have a secretary type the notes into a written report and to brief Mr. Waverly on the same. 

 

Mr. Waverly, of course, would have questions.  How could his boss not, when he himself had questions?  His findings had opened up a new, totally unforeseen mystery for which he had no clear answer despite his best efforts to reconcile the physical evidence with that of the written testimony of the eye-witnesses.  On the one point, the testimony of Napoleon Solo, Jerry Beams, and Arnold Archer had been consistent - that Napoleon had struck Manheim Phoenix on the right side of his jaw, however, there had been trauma of an unexplained nature on the opposite side of the jaw.  He’d gone through Dr. Hockert’s autopsy notes as well, but there was nothing there either that explained this new, startling finding that Greenberg’s examination had revealed.

 

On the central question though, he most certainly did have an answer.  Technically, Dr. Greenberg’s job was finished.  He had performed the autopsy, cataloged and examined all the facts, and reached a sound medical conclusion.  However, the good doctor was well aware that there was more evidence out there to be had - evidence which would not only serve to further validate his conclusion, but aid Napoleon Solo in his quest to clear his name of murder.  Greenberg tapped his fingers of one hand absently upon the desk.  The other hand raised the coffee mug to his lips and he took another sip.  He was thinking more like a lawyer than a man of medicine, but in this case, he had reached a point where the two disciplines neatly converged.  What he needed now wasn’t exactly in his area of expertise to obtain.  The name of the man for whom it was, immediately came to mind.  McKinney.  He needed a lawyer like McKinney to get for him what he could not.

 

The doctor took one last sip before finishing off the mug of coffee, then he got to his feet, taking the recorder with him.  He nearly jumped in surprise when he opened the door and ran straight into the man whom he sought. 

 

“Oh, excuse me,” said the super neatly dressed man in his familiar, clipped, precise way of talking.

 

“How did you know I needed to speak to you?” asked Greenberg, not bothering to hide his surprise. 

 

Alistair McKinney looked at Dr. Greenberg curiously.  “I take it, you were looking for me?”

 

“I was,” Greenberg affirmed.

 

“How convenient.  I was looking for you and now that we have found each other, let us see if we can be of mutual assistance.”  McKinney walked into Greenberg’s office with all the confidence that Greenberg would automatically follow.

 

He did.

 

Twenty minutes later, McKinney walked out.  He was whistling casually, and swinging the long handled, stylish black umbrella he carried.  An outside observer would have thought him out for a stroll with no intended destination.  They would have been wrong, for McKinney was on a mission.  Armed with the information he had been given regarding Greenberg’s autopsy conclusion, McKinney knew exactly where he was going, with whom he would be meeting, and for what purpose.  At last, there would be progress on Napoleon Solo’s case, and the thought of that was, to a man like McKinney, as enticing as fresh blood in the water to a shark.  

 

*******

 

Illya Kuryakin awakened from the nap to which he’d been unaware that he’d fallen into when he felt something cool and flesh-like upon his forehead.  His body tensed and his eyes flew open. 

 

“Relax Mr, Kuryakin, it’s just me.”  The ‘me’ it turned out, was Dr. Young, the physician who had removed the internal fixation devices from Illya’s leg hours ago during the late night/early morning surgery.  Illya immediately discerned that the doctor was not happy and Illya looked warily back at the U.N.C.L.E. doctor in return. 

 

“What’s wrong?”  Illya demanded.  What?  Was that his voice sounding slurred? He was hot.  Why was he hot again?  He alternately shivered with cold.  How much time had passed since Mark Slate had dropped off the requested science journals?  He could tell from the shadows in the room that it must be bordering on early evening.

 

Illya’s wandering thoughts quickly turned to Napoleon.  How was it going for his partner, he wondered.  Surely he was already in Washington D.C., perhaps even in Jerry Beams’ apartment.

 

His body moved restlessly and he heard the sound of one of the scientific journals that he had been reading, before he’d fallen asleep, hit the floor.  He was barely aware that Dr. Young was maneuvering around the device attached to his leg and was now examining the limb until a particularly probing touch wretched a hiss of pain from his lips. 

 

Dr. Young was silent, but the dour expression on his face was speaking for him.   He was unhappy, that much was clear to Illya.  Leaning over Kuryakin, Dr. Young positioned his stethoscope properly and began listening to his patient’s heart.  He took Kuryakin’s pulse next and afterwards, looked no happier for it.  When he checked the bag collecting Kuryakin’s urine, he looked even less happy.  Dr. Young stepped out of the room for a minute and hailed a passing nurse.  After relaying orders to the nurse for more blood samples, vitals, fluids, and increased medication, Young returned to Kuryakin’s bedside, and only then did the doctor ask his patient a direct question.  “Mr. Kuryakin, how are you feeling?”

 

“I feel -  _like I want to get out of this bed and walk all the way home just to be left alone…_ Illya restrained himself from speaking his thoughts aloud.  Despite how much better he had felt this morning, he knew something was off.  The fever had returned and he’d experienced a great deal of unrest and uneasiness.  It was as if he was conscious of a war going on in his body and that the forces that fought on the side of good health and well-being were sounding an alarm for either reinforcements or for a retreat. “I felt much better this morning.  Now I don’t,” was all he ended up saying.

 

“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Kuryakin,” Young replied sympathetically.  “Your leg is tender and swollen again.  I’ll have the nurse check your temperature, but I can clearly see that you are running a fever.  You are dehydrated and your urine output is insufficient. That isn’t good news for your kidneys and may indicate diminished function. I’m going to recommend to Dr. Greenberg that he try a different, second antibiotic in addition to the one he’s been treating you with.”

 

“Why can’t you find the medicine that will kill this infection once and for all?” Illya asked wearily.  A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to him then and Illya’s eyes widened with concern.  “Is this some sort of THRUSH-made superbug?”

 

“No, no.  Nothing like that,” Dr. Young hastened to reassure the Russian.  “I’m sure Dr. Greenberg explained how tricky and what a long process it can be to treat bone infections.  _You_ need to be patient, and _we_ need to be diligent to keep your condition stable.”  

 

“But it isn’t, is it?”

 

“You’ve had a small setback,” Dr. Young admitted.

 

Just then the nurse, Dr. Young had hailed in the hallway, entered the room pushing a small cart holding medical equipment.  Illya recognized her as Cindy, the young woman he’d gotten chastised because he had tricked her into aiding his escape from the infirmary.  He regarded her with a sheepish expression.

 

“Ah, good,” said Dr. Young, and he repeated his orders of earlier, and then added an additional battery of tests as well. 

 

Illya turned his thoughts inwards, tuning out the two conversing professionals so the words, “… _complete blood count, c -reactive protein, an erythrocyte sedimentation rate, and a new x-ray,”_ flowed over him.  Whatever they were going to do to him, he wanted it over so that he could ask about the autopsy of Manheim Phoenix.

  

After Illya had been sufficiently poked, prodded, tested, and relieved of blood, he was allowed to rest.  If the young nurse stuck the needle to draw the blood with a little more vigor than strictly necessary, Illya said nothing.  As the saying goes, Illya figured, ‘payback is Hell.’ 

 

Cindy departed, leaving Illya with Dr. Young again.  Illya decided to take advantage of the opportunity to ask about the autopsy.  “Dr. Young, is there news about the autopsy?” 

 

Dr. Young raised an eyebrow.  “I saw Dr. Greenberg…and yes, I spoke briefly with him, but I think you know it wouldn’t be proper to discuss something like that when it has nothing to do with you.”

 

Illya went cold and for a moment, he was unable to speak.  Finally he found his voice.  “You do know why I’m in this hospital bed, don’t you?”  Illya could feel his emotions, fueled by illness and drugs getting the best of him, and he found he could not keep the words from tumbling out with the speed of a runaway train, even while his mind screamed at him to just let the matter go.  “You are aware that he’s the mad scientist who tried to murder me by throwing me into a pit naked with my arms chained behind my back?  He left me there in agony from a broken leg while that same mad man buried me alive until I suffocated to death breathing in filthy, black dirt.  I’m alive only because my partner and Arnold Archer dug me out with their bare hands, and my partner ended up with his career in tatters as payment for it, and maybe, just _maybe_ Dr. Greenberg is competent enough to prove what I already know - that Napoleon did not murder that old bastard in cold blood.”  Illya fixed the doctor with an icy stare.  “Do you still think, Dr. Young, that Phoenix’s autopsy has nothing to do with me?”

 

Dr. Young’s face flushed and he looked away. Yes, he of course, knew of the circumstances behind Illya’s injury, but only in general terms of how the Russian agent had acquired it.  He had never spoken directly to Illya Kuryakin about his traumatic ‘death’ and resurrection.  The doctor sighed softly and returned his gaze to Illya’s face.

 

The room was silent as Illya and Dr. Young seemingly locked gazes in a battle of wills - a battle that Kuryakin eventually won when the doctor capitulated with a shrug of his shoulders.  “Fine.  What harm can it do?” Young muttered under his breath.

 

“It was not a Hangman’s fracture that killed Dr. Phoenix.  Dr. Greenberg believes that there is strong evidence that Dr. Hockert’s bias, coupled with a series of procedural deficiencies, facilitated his failure to see that the subject’s cervical spine had abnormalities that are undoubtedly congenital in nature.”

 

At hearing this, Illya’s encroaching bodily pain and weariness seemed to vanish.  Truimphant joy flooded his body instead.  He sat up straight in the bed, and he could feel a smile, rare and genuine spread across his face.  “I knew it!” he practically shouted, then, eyes closed, and much softer, almost to himself, “I knew it all along.” 

 

Dr. Young said nothing.  The silence was broken when Illya’s eyes flew open and he asked the million-dollar question.  “What _did_ kill Dr. Phoenix?”

 

A blank expression manifested on Young’s face.  “Inconclusive.  I know how much this has got to rankle Dr. Greenberg, but he was unable to find a definitive cause of death.  And that’s not all,” Dr. Young added.

 

“What do you mean?” Illya demanded.

 

“Well… it appears that Dr. Greenberg stumbled across a bit of a mystery,” Young said.  “Not only was Dr. Greenberg, unable to find exactly what killed the scientist, he claims that there is evidence showing that a tooth had been extracted, _post-mortem_ , and out of a mouth that had both sides of the jaw crudely broken _._ ”

 

Illya shook his head as if trying to clear it.  He needed to think…to process accurately what he had just been told, but Kuryakin knew his mind wasn’t working as sharply as it normally would be.  Had Young said someone had removed a tooth _after_ the man had died?  “The tooth?  Where?” he managed to ask.

 

Young shrugged.  “Missing,” he replied.

 

Illya closed his eyes again in an attempt to block out everything else, but his sluggish thoughts.  He had heard from Napoleon’s own mouth just what had occurred that awful day when Phoenix had buried him alive. He had read Napoleon’s report, which the older man had written in his professionally precise and detailed manner as expected.  Illya was now so familiar with the events that he could close his eyes and picture them as though he’d been an eyewitness to them, when he had not been. 

 

In the imagination of his mind’s eye, Illya saw the face of the mad scientist, gloating over exertions involved in burying an injured enemy alive.  He saw Napoleon’s horrified face, saw it as it morphed into a mask of rage and hate until that too changed into the clearest vision of all:   Napoleon’s fist, clenched so tightly, that the veins were distended.  After that, Illya saw that same fist connecting hard and fast on the right side of the leering face of the THRUSH madman. _The right side._ It had been the right side, but could Napoleon’s blow have knocked a tooth out from the left side of Phoenix’s face and broken his jaw completely?

 

Illya’s eyes snapped open, and he frowned deeply.  “Someone was careless,” he muttered. 

 

“Beg pardon?”  Young asked, confused.

 

“Napoleon did not hit that old man hard enough to break both sides of his jaw, and certainly, my partner did not remove a tooth from the body after the man died.  Someone else did, though, and they were incompetent enough to break Phoenix’s jaw to do it.  They must have assumed the broken jaw would be blamed on Napoleon…which means they had access to the body before the initial autopsy!” 

 

Illya was thinking furiously about the significance of a post-mortem tooth extraction, trying to come up with a theory in light of the apparent facts.  The words, 'poison, suicide capsule' came to mind.  Illya well knew that poison, concealed in a false tooth, was an accepted part of spy trade-craft. Such means of escape was reserved for captured adversaries who had dire need of it in the most extreme circumstances.  Illya also knew that negative toxicology results from Dr. Hockert’s original autopsy were not in dispute.  Phoenix had not a trace of cyanide in his body, thus it was unlikely that the missing tooth held cyanide – after all, what would have been the purpose of removing an unbroken capsule from a dead man?

 

"There was no poison in Phoenix's system," Illya muttered softly.

 

As if uncannily reading Kuryakin’s mind, Young proffered a question.  “A THRUSH suicide caplet concealed in a false tooth is hardly novel, yet, if someone wanted others to believe that Napoleon Solo killed Phoenix, then why remove the undamaged tooth, even if it did contain cyanide? What difference could it have made to leave it there?”

 

It wouldn't.  Illya frowned in frustration.  “Who removed it is just as important as why.” 

 

Young shrugged his shoulders.  “Find the tooth, then you may find the person who  did.”  Dr. Young leaned over and patted his patient on the shoulder.  “Get some rest, Mr. Kuryakin.  That task is beyond you, at the moment.”  With that, Mark Greenberg’s younger colleague left the room.


	39. Chapter 39

 

“ _Get some rest, Mr. Kuryakin.  That task is beyond you, at the moment.”_ Far from inducing rest, Dr. Young’s parting words proved to be the perfect foil for it.  The words continued to ring in Illya’s ears long after they had been uttered.  It was as though the words were mocking him, though that had not been Young’s intent.     Kuryakin, ill and uncomfortable as he felt, continuously turned the problem of who and why the tooth had been removed.  Something nagged at the back of his feverish mind – some piece of information that would normally be so easy to recall, was now elusive and veiled.  It was there, though, Illya _knew_ it, but it lay just outside his reach.  This was maddening for him. 

_Start at the beginning,_ Illya thought.  So Illya marshaled all of his analytical skills to consider the problem from the most elementary level.  It was safe to assume that whoever forcibly removed Phoenix’s tooth was working against U.N.C.L.E.’s interests.  That person could be a THRUSH double agent.  Illya’s expression grew grim.  At this time, there was one U.N.C.L.E. agent who was positively being investigated for the possibility of being a THRUSH double agent, and that person was Jerry Beams.  Beams had been in Washington D.C. at the same time as the body of Manheim Phoenix.  It was possible, that Beams could have gained access to the body and removed the tooth.

 

Which led Illya Kuryakin back to the perplexing question of, ‘why?’ If Phoenix did indeed have an undamaged cyanide fake tooth, leaving it in the scientist’s dead body would not have lessened a case of murder against Napoleon Solo.  _Unless_ _the thing that killed Phoenix was a substance rare or unknown before…_

 

The elusive, niggling feeling that an answer or clue was close at hand, intensified, teasing Illya’s mind mercilessly. _What was it?  What did his subconscious mind know that his conscious mind did not?_ He closed his eyes and summoned up a vision of himself and what he had been doing before he’d fallen asleep mere hours ago.  Reading.  He had been reading articles from the scientific journals that Mark Slate had brought him.

 

Suddenly, the thing just out of his mental reach jarred him in the on-rush of refreshed memory.  Box jellyfish.  He had read an article about the highly venomous species of Box jellyfish found in the Indo-Pacific waters.  The topic had marginally captured his attention for the length of time it had taken to read it, and he had not consciously filed the article away in his mind, but now he all but fell out of the bed in a hasty, painful attempt to grab the correct journal from the nightstand in order to find the article again. 

 

He grunted and sweat broke out on his forehead, but he managed to snag three of the journals.  Immediately he began thumbing through the first one in the stack, rapidly trying to locate the article.  His long fingers leafed through the pages and his eyes scanned each page in vain. This was not the correct journal.  Illya cursed softly and tossed the journal aside before opening up the next one.  He flipped through the second one and that too got tossed aside when he did not find the article.  Illya ignored the slight trembling of his hands when he grasped the third journal. The rapidly turning pages fanned his face with cool air until his hand abruptly stopped when his gaze fell upon the story. 

 

Illya noted, with no small degree of embarrassment, that his heart was pounding at a ridiculous pace for so un-strenuous an exercise.  He chaffed at the weakness of his ill body and hated to cater to it.  To his credit, he forced himself to hold in check the sarcastic comment his acerbic nature wanted to direct his way.  He had more important things to think about such as the potential for the obscure little article to be the key to the mystery of what killed Dr. Phoenix.  

 

Kuryakin reread the intriguing article, and this time, his naturally cynical heart filled with tentative hope.  Per the article, the Box jellyfish was capable of producing one of the most deadly poisons.   A noted Japanese scientist from Tokyo had been experimenting with producing a synthetic version of the poison that would be just as lethal as the natural poison when he disappeared suddenly.  The scientist’s body, bearing clear signs of torture, had been discovered in downtown Atsugi some six days after his family had reported him missing. 

 

Illya was very much interested in knowing more about the mysterious disappearance and death for the Russian.  After rereading the details, Kuryakin was inclined to think that the scientist’s untimely death had ‘THRUSH’ involvement written all over it.  If that were the case, then perhaps THRUSH scientists had co-opted the research project for their own nefarious purposes -  probably to make it virtually undetectable by standard forensic toxicology testing.

 

Here then was the possible connection to Dr. Phoenix.  Phoenix had been a top-notch scientist in THRUSH employ.  If Illya’s theory proved to be true, then THRUSH had murdered the Japanese scientist and then someone, maybe even Dr. Phoenix, had perfected the work and succeeded in making the poison undetectable.  Illya, who was well acquainted with Phoenix’s demented ego, had no problem believing that if the scientist had a hand in perfecting the poison, he would have insisted on being the first to receive the new, cutting-edge suicide tooth implant.  

 

 _Yes. Yes, That fits!_ Illya sat up straighter, talking aloud, reasoning it out as his tired, increasingly feverish brain hurtled through each thought process like a sluggish train picking up speed.  “Oh, Napasha,” he said aloud, when he came to yet another inevitable conclusion:  Napoleon had not killed Dr. Phoenix, but It was Napoleon’s fist that had landed the blow, that had indeed compromised the false tooth, thus leading to the poison being released.  That occurrence was an unforeseeable event leading to collateral damage, and while unintentional on Phoenix’s part, was certainly not Napoleon Solo’s fault either.  Illya did not believe that Solo still thought himself guilty of having inappropriately brought about the man's death, but if there were yet any remaining lingering doubts in his partner’s mind, this would most certainly rid him of them, once and for all.  

 

Solo’s feelings notwithstanding, the more pressing issue concerned the whereabouts of the tooth.  What had happened to it, and did it even still exist? Someone had taken the proof of what had really killed the THRUSH scientist; could that person really be Jerry Beams? If Beams had kept the evidence it could very well be in the man’s apartment - the very apartment where Napoleon Solo should now be searching. 

 

Kuryakin could not help but think of the broader ramifications, and this led him to conclusions via his own analysis. Just as Mr. Waverly and Napoleon had already discussed, if U.N.C.L.E. had been infiltrated by a THRUSH threat sent to harm the Section Chief, through Napoleon Solo, then Jerry Beams could also be Eugen Grunewald.  If anyone could find evidence of that, Napoleon Solo could.  Illya looked towards the chest of drawers by the bed.  He was sure his communicator pen was in the top drawer. He had only to reach out and get it. 

 

This proved to be a difficult, but not impossible task.  Illya gritted his teeth, edged as close to the nightstand as possible before reaching out and sliding the lower drawer open from his precarious position.  The communicator pen had slid to the rear of the drawer and Illya’s hand fumbled around inside until he found it.  With a sigh of relief he resettled himself in the middle of the hospital bed, cursing and shaking with the pain that alternately throbbed and sharpened.  “Open Channel F.”

 

*******   

 

 

Napoleon contemplated the restrained Botticelli for a minute while Botticelli glared back at Solo angrily.  What was a THRUSH hit man doing in Jerry Beams’ apartment?  Had he been waiting for Jerry?  Were the two friends?  Or had it been a case of the hit man _lying_ _in wait_ for Beams? 

 

 

Solo gave a cheeky, shark-like grin.  He rubbed his hands together in a brisk, casual gesture.  “Well…I’ve called for a clean-up.  In a short while the U.N.C.L.E. interrogators will be here to take you away in order to, uh… get to know you better.  Maybe you and I could enjoy some conversation first?”

 

“Screw your mother and the drunk who spawned you,” Botticelli snarled.

 

“Tsk, tsk.  You can at least pretend like you’re a gentlemen and not THRUSH gutter trash for hire,” Solo said mildly.  “You told me your name so I’ll tell you mine just to show I’m a gentleman.”  Solo stepped closer, but out of the man’s reach.  “My name is Napoleon Solo.”

 

Botticelli’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, but Napoleon’s observant gaze caught it.  _He knows my name.  Good._

 

Botticelli stared at his enemy and it was easy for Solo to see the calculating going on behind those cold, dark eyes.  They were at a stale mate.  Finally, the bound man spoke contemptuously.  “Waverly's top animal.”

 

“You know me,” Solo spoke bluntly. 

 

Botticelli laughed.  “I know your name,” Botticelli corrected.  “Who works for my employer and does not know the name Napoleon Solo, or his Russian partner, Illya Kuryakin?  To hear it told, you two are the bane of THRUSH’s existence.  Too bad you were never _my_ assignment,” Botticelli said, his voice full of venom and promise of a difficult death.  

 

Solo smirked. “I’m not the one who’s sitting tied-up,” he gently reminded.   Botticelli jerked forward as if to break the bonds and strangle his captor by the neck.  “You are in the home of an U.N.C.L.E. agent.  Why?  Solo demanded.  “Is it because you are both working for THRUSH?

 

Something dark and sinister snaked its way across Botticelli’s face at that, and Napoleon read much in that expression.  Annoyance.  Vengeance.   _So that’s how it is.  He knows Jerry Beams, and the acquaintance has been less than mutually beneficial._  

 

Napoleon glanced at his wristwatch.  The U.N.C.L.E. security detail would be here soon to whisk Botticelli away.  Unlike THRUSH, U.N.C.L.E. did not employ torture as a standard interrogation technique.  Instead, powerful truth serums would force the man to reveal all he knew, but even that took time.  Solo wanted his answers first and he wanted them now.  To that end, he crafted a blend of truth and lies designed to get him what he wanted. 

 

“Mr. Botticelli, you speak to me now of your own free will and I will see you released," Solo lied.  You can be home tonight, dining with your family, assuming you have one. If you don’t, the security agents will be here soon and you will be pumped so full of drugs that you’d tell anyone who will listen even about the wrongs you committed going back to when you were a toddler wearing short pants.  Then I promise you, you won’t see the light of day as a free man for a very long time, perhaps ever. ”

 

Botticelli snorted. “Why should I believe you?” 

 

Solo shrugged.  “You shouldn’t.  You should believe what your masters have told you about me.  You know who I am.  You know that I am the Chief Enforcement Agent” (Solo winced inside at the slight lie).  You know that I am the Continental Chief’s heir and will one day sit in his seat.  How much influence do you think I have?”   

 

Botticelli seemed to think that response over, turning it over in his mind while examining it for flaws and tricks.  Apparently finding none, Botticelli spit to the side and with a nod, conceded to the argument.  “You want to know about Jerry Beams.  I will give you Jerry Beams so that Jerry will learn what happens when you double-cross Gianni Botticelli.”

 

“Do tell,” Solo invited drily.

 

“First, the man you know as Jerry Beams serves the same THRUSH masters as me, only this man used our mutual association to hire me for some of my work. I did what he asked, but when it was time to pay me, THRUSH gave me only crumbs saying that they had not agreed to pay such a high amount for the deed. This boy thought I was some kind of chump that he could cheat out of my money.”

 

Solo’s eyes narrowed.  “What deed? What did Beams ask you to do?”

 

“To kill his partner, a man named Archer.”

 

Solo swore under his breath at hearing that final confirmation that it had been Jerry Beams who had orchestrated the attempted assassination of Agent Archer. Archer owed his partner one and seeing how the man was laid up for the foreseeable future, Solo would be happy to serve up justice as Archer’s proxy.  But something Botticelli said bore further inquiry.  “You said, the man I ‘know as Jerry Beams’.  Do you know him by another name?”

 

“Of course he has another name - he is a THRUSH double-agent.  No, I don’t know what it is,” Botticelli pre-empted Solo’s next question.

 

“That’s not the only thing you don’t know,” Solo muttered under his breath.  He was referring to the fact that, apparently, Botticelli did not know that his quarry wasn’t even in Washington D.C..

 

“Where - ” just then Solo heard a soft knock on the door.  Without taking his eyes off of Botticelli, Solo backed up to the door, U.N.C.L.E. special at the ready.  “Who is it?”

 

“U.N.C.L.E. Dave’s carpet cleaning service.” 

 

Solo sighed, frustrated.  His time was up, yet he still had more questions for Botticelli.  Now the THRUSH assassin would disappear into the bowels of D.C. HQ where he would give answers to someone other than him.  When Solo opened the door, three U.N.C.L.E. agents from the Security and Personnel department walked into the apartment.

 

Two of the agents maneuvered a rolled-up carpet inside, while the third carried a clipboard in his hand. The agents were quick and efficient.  Clean-up was their specialty.  In short order, they had Botticelli bound, gagged, and firmly rolled up into the carpet.  To the casual observer, a cleaned carpet was being returned and a dirty one taken out for cleaning.  They would never know that the cleaning van was really from U.N.C.L.E., and that it had everything necessary to transport a body - either living or dead.    

 

Botticelli was gone, but Solo still had a job to do.  He was positively on fire now that he had gained proof positive that Jerry Beams was a THRUSH double-agent.  Beams had almost succeeded in having his partner murdered just to keep Archer from finding out that Beams had falsified Archer’s written testimony.  There was only one thing left to prove, and if Botticelli were to be believed, he did not know if Jerry Beams’ true name was Eugen Grunewald.  All of Solo’s considerable instincts told him that Botticelli had been telling the truth on that score.

 

Slowly, methodically, Napoleon Solo resumed his search of the THRUSH agent’s home from the place where he had been so rudely interrupted by Botticelli’s attack.  He was only about an hour into it, having found nothing incriminating, when his communicator pen began to chirp.  He took it out of his pocket and activated it.  “Solo here,” he said with is throat still aching from the abuse it had taken.

 

A voice that sounded like his Russian partner’s and yet somehow disturbingly different came through the communicator. “Napoleon, have you already finished searching Jerry Beams apartment?

 

“Illya?”  Surprised and concerned, Napoleon covered it quickly.  “No.  I’ve only completed one room,” he said. 

 

“You must have landed in D.C. hours ago. What has you taking so long?” Illya asked.

 

Napoleon chuckled grimly.  “The THRUSH welcome wagon was there to greet me. Listen, Illya, I was able to get the better of that assassin named Gianni Botticelli, but he confirmed for me that not only is Jerry Beams a THRUSH man, he's also the one who ordered the hit on his own partner.

 

"And your welcome committee member knows this because Botticelli is the one Beams hired to do the deed,” Illya deduced, not knowing that previously, Archer had identified his would-be assassin.

 

"Precisely," Napoleon answered.  He breathed a bit easier and chided himself.  He really needed to relax, he thought.  Illya was as sharp as ever.  There was probably nothing wrong with his partner that a good night's sleep wouldn't make right, Napoleon told himself.

 

"What else did he say?" Illya asked.

 

"Well, he didn't know what Jerry Beams' real name is, and at that point I think Botticelli was more unhappy with Beams than with U.N.C.L.E..  He would have told me Beams' real name had he known it, just to rat him out," Napoleon chuckled cheerfully.  "Apparently, it doesn't pay to rip-off the hired help."

 

"What are you talking about?"

 

"It means that Jerry Beams committed more THRUSH funds then he was authorized to pay for a hit job and Botticelli didn't take kindly to being short-changed."

 

 

"I always thought Beams was an expensive man in a cheap suit," Kuryakin quipped back, though his voice lacked the robust sound of good health.  "Napoleon, listen to me."  Illya's voice grew serious again.  Solo heard the odd, strained tone return and Napoleon was sure he heard Illya hiss in breathless pain.    
 

“Illya, are you all right?” Napoleon asked immediately.

 

“Yes,” the Russian snapped.   There was a pause while Napoleon waited, albeit impatiently.  Then he heard his partner speaking carefully, deliberately, as though Illya required extra effort to speak. “Two words, Napoleon:  Box jellyfish.”

 

Napoleon frowned, puzzled.  “What does that mean, _Tovarisch_?”

 

“It means, I think I know how Dr. Phoenix died. The autopsy showed that someone, not Hockert, or anyone else from U.N.C.L.E. medical, removed a tooth, in a very crude extraction, from Dr. Phoenix after he died. On its face, it may seem like a bizarre thing to do, but in a strange, diabolical, THRUSH way, Napoleon, it makes perfect sense.”

 

Napoleon smiled slightly at that.  

 

“According to Dr. Young, Dr. Greenberg didn’t find any signs of cyanide or other poison, but I found an article in one of my science journals about the saga of a Japanese scientist who was perfecting a synthetic, non-detectable version of the powerful poison produced by the Box jellyfish. The unfortunate scientist was kidnapped and later found murdered - I think, courtesy of THRUSH for the devilish purpose of misappropriating the Japanese scientist’s work.”

 

Fascinated, Napoleon was following where the tale was going.  “So you think that Dr. Phoenix died of this synthetic Box jellyfish poison?”

 

“Precisely.  If Jerry Beams _is_ Eugen Grunewald, then we know that he has sworn vengeance against Mr. Waverly for what happened to his family when he was a boy. Dr. Phoenix’s death provided an opportunity to get to Waverly by taking you out.  Dr. Phoenix had a suicide caplet in the form of a tooth filled with the new poison and Jerry Beams knew it. Why wouldn’t he do everything in his power to ensure that you would be blamed for Phoenix’s death by obscuring any evidence pointing to the real cause of death?”

 

Napoleon examined this theory and found it made sense. He also couldn’t help but find it appealing even though accepting that THRUSH may have perfected a new suicide poison, also meant accepting that the capsule’s integrity had been compromised, and that his blow had been the thing that did it.  Even so, Napoleon was prepared to accept it and not feel an ounce of guilt. True, he had already mentally let himself off the hook for the scientist’s death some time ago, but this development, if the evidence could be found, would finally publicly clear his record and remove any accusation of an unjustified killing of a valuable target.       

 

Not for the first time did Napoleon Solo thank his lucky stars that Illya Kuryakin was not only on U.N.C.L.E.’s side, but his as well.  The tenacious Russian, ill and battling a serious infection, had devoted his mental energy to helping him find the truth that would vindicate him completely. 

 

There was only one remaining problem. If Jerry Beams did not admit to what he had done, then there would be no hard evidence to prove Illya’s theory, or to link him to the removal of the tooth from Phoenix’s dead body. As if reading Napoleon’s mind, Illya spoke up. 

 

“The tooth is the evidence we need, Napoleon.  It _has_ to be somewhere in Beam’s apartment, or we have nothing,” Illya said.

 

 _We.  He said ‘we’._ Napoleon’s heart filled with optimism and determination.  He wasn’t alone in this, never had been. and Illya’s casual use of the word was a timely reminder that Illya, naturally independent and reserved, thought of them as one.  If the tooth was somewhere secreted away in Beams’ apartment, he would find it. Napoleon could believe that a double-agent with an ego like Beams would have kept the tooth as a souvenir if he had taken the trouble to extract it.

 

He would tear every drawer apart, find every hidden compartment until he located it, and then and only then would he get on a plane and return home. 

 

 

******* 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	40. Chapter 40

******* 

 

Jerry Beams was weary.  He’d spent over nine taxing hours shadowing Agent Rodan as the CEA split his work day between supervising other Section Two agents, attending to administrative work, and going to the underground range to conduct an exhaustive, pre-field test of various modified weaponry.  All Beams had wanted to do was get on with the business of enacting a permanent solution to the Arnold Archer problem - and he was running out of time.  Tomorrow, if the injured Archer was deemed stable enough to travel, he was to accompany Archer back to Washington D.C. on the U.N.C.L.E. medical flight.

 

Unfortunately for Archer, under no circumstances must that be allowed to happen - not unless it was to accompany the dead body of Archer back to Washington D.C..   

 

Pretending to enjoy the company of the over-bearing, pompous Chief Enforcement Agent Rodan all day had nearly expended Beams’ impressive capacity to mimic normal human-social interaction skills that he employed when needs must.  He didn’t know how much more of the pompous Rodan he could tolerate.  It was a strain having to maintain the illusion of having found a likeable, kindred soul in Rodan when in fact, he despised the man.  More importantly, what he really needed to focus on was ensuring he received a steady flow of up-to-date reports on Archer’s condition while not drawing undo attention to himself.  True, he was Agent Archer’s partner and by U.N.C.L.E. culture, had every right to inquire as to the injured man's welfare, yet he needed to avoid arousing suspicion by constantly demanding minute by minute updates.  Loathe as he was to admit, he was beginning to have a sense that things were on the verge of unraveling.  Archer would eventually awaken, and he, Beams was playing a delicate game of timing in order to get to him first.  It was the obnoxious, demanding Rodan who was monopolizing his time and keeping him from getting away to take care of Archer.  It was Rodan's fault that Beams was in this anxious state, hating this game where he was the clever THRUSH mouse, hiding in a barn full of U.N.C.L.E. cats. 

 

The way he saw it, as long as Archer remained unconscious, there was no chance of Archer learning of, or having the opportunity to dispute the written testimony that Beams had substituted during Solo’s Inquest.  Archer’s continued silence meant that his cover as Jerry Beams, upstanding U.N.C.L.E. enforcement agent, was intact and he could come and go about in the New York Headquarters as any other agent.   His latest reports from the U.N.C.L.E infirmary were that Arnold Archer was in a coma.   _Soon,_ Beams thought _._   He would make his move soon.  He would ditch the idiot Rodan, make his way to the infirmary where his partner lay, and kill him.  Beams mentally ran through a list of possible ways to bring about Archer’s demise after the first failed attempt.  There could be no failure this time.  His devious mind sifted through plans, considering one at a time before discarding each for one perceived weakness or another.  At last he settled on one, and upon finding it wholly unoriginal but entirely expeditious, he determined to watch and wait for the opportune time to enact it. 

 

At the moment, Rodan was just wrapping up the tail-end of yet another exaggerated feat of prowess that had, miraculously, secured him victory over a particularly devious THRUSH adversary.  The big man, who was currently occupying the CEA chair, formally occupied by Napoleon Solo, bellowed with unseemly, raucous laughter at his own cleverness, heedless of the stares of Section Two agents working in the space beyond the boundaries of the CEA office.  Jerry Beams followed suit and laughed in forced appreciation and faked comradery.  In reality, if he thought he had to listen to one more preposterous, vain-glory seeking story from this man, he was going to kill Archer and do away with Rodan in one giant, two-for-one special.  With no regard for the irony of the thought, Jerry Beams, covert THRUSH agent, found himself longing for the simple, smooth partnership Arnold Archer’s competent and easy-going personality had afforded. 

 

 _Why doesn’t this pompous fool choke on his own fat tongue?_ Beams’ thoughts turned to the things a vicious THRUSH assassin like Botticelli would do to this U.N.C.L.E. agent as Rodan launched into yet another irksome tale. 

 

Beams smirked.

 

The expression the gory image his mind conjured was an evil thing, but Rodan, completely oblivious to the bloody fate his companion was imagining for him, grinned back.

 

 

*******

 

Napoleon Solo stood amidst the mess of a bedroom that had once been an immaculately kept apartment of one Jerry Beams. This was the last full room in the apartment he’s searched.  He’d already methodically searched the living room, kitchen, dining room, and now the small but elegantly appointed bedroom.   Frustrated, the enforcement agent took a deep breath and slowly turned a complete circle around the room.  Solo trained sharp eyes over the pulled out drawers where he had checked for false bottoms and the various scattered objects he had examined for any hidden buttons that when pressed, would activate hidden safe doors.  He rifled through every household container that could possible hold a tooth as well.  He’d done all that and more and yet the tooth eluded him still.

 

The search for Dr. Phoenix’s tooth had started out meticulous and with Solo taking deliberate care to leave as much of the belongings in the same condition and placement as he had found them.  As the search proved fruitless from one room to the next, Solo felt himself growing ever more desperate and far less concerned about minimizing signs of his presence.  He was also growing concerned about the length of time he had been in the U.N.C.L.E. traitor’s apartment.  Would more of Beams’ THRUSH associates come to call upon the agent here?  Solo’s encounter with Botticelli had proved most unpleasant and his throat still pained him from the violence of that unexpected encounter.

 

Solo stood, grim-faced, wracking his mind to see if he had overlooked anything.  He was beginning to doubt whether or not Beams had actually had the audacity to keep the evidence as some sort of souvenir, and he couldn’t afford to second guess himself now.  If the tooth was not there, then there was one place left to look:  Solo had yet to enter the bathroom with its small, claw-foot tub, pedestal-stand sink, and porcelain toilet. Solo thought it an unlikely place for Jerry Beams to have  put the evidence of his treachery, but Solo wasn’t leaving the apartment without having looked in every place possible.

 

Solo walked into the bathroom and took a moment to assess the small space.  It was a windowless room and Solo yanked on the chain to turn on the overhead light.  Early on, Solo had deduced that Beams was either a compulsively neat bachelor, or a man well-financed enough to afford maid service.  Solo’s instincts favored the latter.  Napoleon briefly entertained the random idea that Beams, confident that no one would ever know that the corpse of Dr. Phoenix had undergone a post-mortem tooth extraction, had been lax and placed the tooth in an unsecured spot.  A maid may have discarded or moved it to a place seemingly more suited to keeping a loose tooth.  His gaze was drawn to the claw-foot tub where a soap dish, back scrub and wash rag were on an attached brass stand.  Moving on, he next took in the sink and the contents placed around the narrow sides.  There was no traditional wall-mounted medicine cabinet, but rather a small, open shelf held an assortment of folded towels, rolls of toilet paper, various objects, including an empty toothbrush holder, and a ceramic cup filled with plastic combs and other items.  A wild, desperate hope blossomed in Napoleon’s heart and when his gaze fell upon the sink.

 

His feet were moving, taking him in the direction of the sink, almost without a conscious command to do so.  Was it wishful thinking or movement directed by the famous instincts that had always served him well?  Solo took a deep breath and began slowly lifting and inspecting items. 

 

What he found was nearly as good as a broken false tooth.  Solo’s hand reached out and he picked up a clear, unmarked bottle of what looked like water and next to it, three separate containers.  With wide eyes and steady hands Napoleon Solo opened the containers and found that each held a pair of sliver-thin, brown-colored contact lenses.  Solo whistled in triumph.  Jerry Beams had colored contact lenses.  Why else would he have such an unusual item if he were not Eugen Grunewald? This was compelling evidence.  For a moment, the creeping desperation threatening to overtake Napoleon Solo retreated and he smirked to himself.  _And did you get your brown hair color from the same container too?_   


Solo left the containers in place.  There was no need to confiscate them as evidence.  Jerry Beams would be seized soon enough and compelled to undergo an eye examination. Buoyed by the find, Solo picked up a decorative box of tissues to inspect it.  He found nothing.

 

Solo refused to give up and admit defeat, for that was simply not his way. There were no false bottoms or hidden vaults, and Solo knew there was only one last place to look:  in the ceramic cup filled with combs.  Ready to get it over with and move on to the next plan which he had yet to formulate, Solo turned over the cup and plastic combs fell out on the small rug.  So accustomed to receiving zero return on his investment of time and effort that Solo very nearly missed the flash of porcelain white that fell out upon the carpet.  Heart pounding, Solo stared briefly in a paralyzing moment of terrible hope and fear.  It was unbelievable! Stunned, his breath hitched and he rocked back on his heels until he was completely sitting on his behind in his stylish suit.  There the former CEA sat, staring at the object of his quest.  A tooth, a broken molar, to be precise, had fallen out of the ceramic cup!  Still shocked, Solo felt laughter bubbling up at this latest manifestation of what others had characterized as “Solo luck”.  He let the emotion come in a quick burst that left his eyes watering from the relief of tenacity and hope realized.  When the moment past, Solo contemplated the broken tooth, debating whether nor not he should pick it up, not knowing if there was some residual THRUSH-enhanced, box jellyfish poison still on it.   

 

Solo came to the conclusion that Jerry Beams did not have a death wish – he must have ensured the broken tooth had been cleansed of its poison or he would not have placed it in the same ceramic cup that held his assortment of plastic hair combs.  Still, an abundance of caution would not go amiss, therefore he would not put his own fingerprints on the tooth.  He went into to the kitchen and rifled through the drawers until he found a plastic sandwich bag into which he carefully scooped the broken tooth.

 

He would return in triumph.  Jerry Beams’ days at U.N.C.L.E. were numbered.  His true eyes would be revealed and the threat to Mr. Waverly, halted.  Silently, Napoleon Solo crossed the floor and went to the front door of his enemy.  He turned and let his gaze sweep over the living room one last time.  The shadows that fell across his face seemed to enhance the sharp hardness of the granite expression. 

_See you soon, Eugen Grunewald._  

********

 

It was nearing 10 pm and in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, Dr. Greenberg and Dr. Young stood at the bedside of Illya Kuryakin.   Greenberg was looking down unhappily at the sleeping agent.  For one thing, upon entering Kuryakin’s room, he had noted the slumbering presence of Enforcement Agent Slate in a corner chair. It was well-after visiting hours and the agent should not have been there.  Apparently the staff had been lax and permitted it.  For another, Greenberg was tired, exhausted from the intense level of care that Agent Arnold Archer’s condition had demanded in order to save the young agent’s life.  Greenberg had declined to be relieved of watch duty by one of U.N.C.L.E.’s auxiliary physicians for the length of time in which Archer had remained in critical condition, but now the young enforcement agent's health status was much improved.   Archer’s complete recovery would be long and not easy, but Greenberg was confident that his patient was out of danger, therefore, he had made the decision to head home.

 

By rights, Dr. Greenberg knew he could have been at home already, relaxing in his dressing gown and easy chair, but work ethic and genuine regard for Illya Kuryakin had him checking in on the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary’s senior-ranking patient on his way out the door.   Greenberg knew that Kuryakin had been in the capable hands of Dr. Young while he’d been solely occupied with saving Archer’s life.  This fact had fueled his desire to cap off the long day with an anticipated extra bit of good news and assurance as to the well-being of Illya Kuryakin.  Based on years of medical experience, Greenberg had fully expected to see by now, at least some small but definite signs of improvement to Kuryakin’s condition with the steady stream of most advanced antibiotics that had been flowing into the Russian’s system.

 

Dr. Greenberg was not at all pleased. 

 

The osteomyelitis Kuryakin was battling was clearly worsening.  Greenberg frowned as he watched Dr. Young replace the sheet gently over Kuryakin’s tender, swollen leg.  The senior U.N.C.L.E. doctor had not even taken the reserved agent’s vital signs and he could clearly see that Illya Kuryakin was not on the mend as expected.  The Russian’s broad forehead was once again beaded with sweat and though he was asleep, it was not a restful state from the pained look and return of his body’s restless movements.  A nasal cannula, that provided pure oxygen, now sprouted from Kuryakin’s nostrils. 

 

Greenberg spoke in a low voice to his colleague, Dr. Young.  “Let me see what the latest white blood cell count is.”  With his peripheral vision, Greenberg spied Mark Slate, stirring from his corner chair as if alerted by the soft conversation.  Wordlessly, Dr. Young handed over Kuryakin’s chart and Greenberg quickly took note of the latest test results and vital signs.  The results confirmed what he already knew:  there was no improvement.  For the first time since the senior enforcement agent’s admission to the infirmary, Greenberg felt something skirting the edge of dread as he took in Kuryakin’s health status, noting the lower platelet count, blood pressure, as well as the presence of excess acid in Kuryakin’s blood.  Greenberg pursed his lips. These were all signs indicating pervading bone cell death which if not arrested soon, would leave them no choice, but to amputate the Russian’s leg.

In fact, the infection was beginning to spread and the antibiotics were having little affect.  To Greenberg’s displeasure, Kuryakin was also boarding on the edge of renal complications according to the latest blood tests.  As ill as Kuryakin was, it was imperative that they stave off acute renal failure.   _Why isn’t he improving?_ Greenberg silently berated himself for even thinking that Kuryakin would make this easy. It was a long-standing fact that the Russian made a poor patient, but this stubborn infection surpassed any of the man’s previous hospitalizations.  “This isn’t good,” Greenberg stated bluntly, outwardly calm and professionally detached, but inwardly feeling somewhat dismayed.  “He’s not responding to the antibiotics.  The blood urea nitrogen, creatinine, and glomerular filtration rates are not within healthy range.  This man is inching closer to septicemia with these toxins building up in his bloodstream.”  Greenberg held out Kuryakin’s chart to Dr. Young, indicating his wish for the other man to take it back.  Dr. Young tucked the chart under one arm and with the other, rechecked the PIC line running into Kurkyakin’s neck.  “At this point, you have no choice but to start him on a course of temporary hemodialysis,” Greenberg advised. 

“I know,” Dr. Young agreed, his voice also colored with the same frustration to mirror Greenberg’s.  Dr. Young shook his head.   “I’ve never before administered that much of the most powerful antibiotics we have and seemingly gotten nowhere. At least he’s yet to develop any abnormal heart rhythms,” Young shifted his gaze back to Kuryakin’s face.  “He’s going to hate it, but I’ve ordered an O.R. prepped.  I’m going to have to open up the leg, drain the accumulated pus and see how much bone and tissue needs to be removed.”  

      

“Stephan, mind if I tag along and have a peek for myself?” Greenberg asked, all thoughts of an easy chair and slippers gone from his mind.

 

At the same time Greenberg voiced his request, a hard voice with a British accent suddenly demanded, “What did you say?” 

 

Greenberg startled having momentarily forgotten all about Slate’s presence.  The normally jovial, best-mate voice that sounded so loud behind Greenberg was infused with worry. Both doctors turned around to see a sharp-eyed, leery-looking Mark Slate looking back at them.

 

Greenberg narrowed his eyes.  “Mr. Slate, you shouldn’t be here.  Visiting hours were over a long time ago.”  Greenberg then looked pointedly at his subordinate, but Dr. Young merely shrugged at the insinuation of professional lapse.

 

Slate’s blue eyes, normally so full of good cheer were determined.  “I gave Napoleon my word that I would look after Illya while in his absence and I don’t intend to break it.  I’ll go home when Napoleon comes back,” he finished firmly, “and his plane won’t be in for at least another hour.” 

 

Greenberg sighed.  These stubborn agents - cut from the same cloth were they. Still, that didn’t mean that he would casually breach patient-doctor confidentiality. “What we were discussing wasn’t for your ears, Agent Slate.”

 

“I know that, but I heard it anyway,” Slate stated in a harsh whisper.  “You basically said that Illya’s kidneys are failing and he needs dialysis. Isn’t that right?”

 

Dr. Young cleared his throat. Without looking at the man who was technically his boss, he answered Slate, “He’s not responding yet to the antibiotic treatment and the infection is spreading.  We are doing everything we can to stop things from cascading out of control.” 

 

Slate looked down at his friend, the man whose care to whom Napoleon Solo had entrusted. “Exactly what are you doing for him?”

 

“Thirty minutes from now, he’s going to be on an operating table, and yes, you heard correctly.  Right after that he’ll be starting dialysis to help out his kidney function,” Young informed.

  

“Bloody hell!” Slate swore softly. Slate looked down at Kuryakin and shook his head.  “You’re really going all out, aren’t you?  You’ve got to stop this nonsense before Napoleon gets back. Do you want him to take my head off?”

 

“I am sorry, Mr. Slate, but you really do have to leave now.” Dr. Young interjected.  “I need to scrub up, and Mr. Kuryakin here has places to go, but first I have to wake him up and explain what’s going to happen.”

 

Slate looked torn.  In Illya’s state he was bound to wake up confused and anxious.  What if he asked for Napoleon and couldn’t recall that the other man had left town on a mission?  He’d promised Napoleon he’d see to his partner’s welfare in the other man’s absence and leaving Illya now would not be it. Still, this was Dr. Greenberg’s infirmary and although Mark wasn’t any fonder of doctors than Illya, or most agents for that matter, he knew Greenberg was more than a skilled surgeon.  He was a true friend to the U.N.C.L.E. agents. If the doctor asked him to leave, it was for a good reason.

 

Slate made his decision.  “I’ll go. But first let me wake him up and tell him I’m going.  Then I’ll leave you gentlemen to it, okay?”

 

 

“That’s fine, Dr. Young replied.

 

“I’ll get the duty nurse and an orderly to come in here and I’ll see you in the OR,” Greenberg stated.

 

Dr. Young nodded his acknowledgment and Greenberg quietly left the room. The two men stood in silence for a moment before Dr. Young spoke. “Go on,” he urged.

 

Mark came closer to the Russian’s side and bending over, laid one hand gently on Illya’s shoulder and gave it a shake.  “Illya.  Illya, wake up.” 

 

Illya’s head tossed and he winced once before the blue eyes fluttered but did not fully open.  “Leave me alone, Napoleon,” the Russian’s slightly slurred voice mumbled. 

 

“Sorry mate, not Napoleon.  It’s Mark.  Open your eyes.” 

 

Illya’s eyes suddenly sprang open, wide and alert for danger.  He made as if to rise from the bed, tubes and all to vanquish an unseen foe.  “Where is Napoleon?” he demanded, his voice sounding ragged.

 

“Woah.  Hold on.  Napoleon is fine. Well, as far as I know he’s fine,” Slate soothed, trying to gently push the man back onto white-starched sheets.  “Got into a bit of a scuff-up in Jerry Beam’s apartment but that's all, remember?”

 

Illya said nothing, but continued to look around as not hearing the Brit. Mark didn’t care one bit for the blank expression on the Russian’s face but he continued cheerily on. “He’s on a plane about to land at LaGuardia in roughly - ” Slate looked at his watch -  “45 minutes.”

 

Much to Slate’s relief, the confused look ebbed from Kuryakin’s eyes and a   peeved expression was beginning to emerge instead. “You woke me up to tell me that?” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously when he saw the figure of Dr. Young standing at the foot of his bed. “No, you did not,” Illya answered his own question.

 

“I woke you up to tell you I’m being kicked out of the Infirmary.  I can’t have your partner accusing me of dereliction of duty, can I?” Mark smirked, despite his knowledge of the real reason he was leaving.

 

“Where is Napoleon?” Illya asked, this time, his breath hitched as if suddenly out of air.  The Russian was looking around expectantly, his expression cloudy with renewed sudden confusion and the pain his restless movements had cost him. 

 

Mark froze, deeply disquieted, but then he smiled the easy, warm smile so familiar on the Brit.  “Napoleon’s on his way,” he patiently explained again. “He’ll be here soon, but Illya, I’m leaving now. Can’t hog all of your attention now, can I?” Slate nodded his head towards Dr. Young who proceeded to walk around the bed and position himself closer to where his patient could see him better.

 

“Take it easy, Illya.”  Slate gave the Russian’s good leg a gentle squeeze and then reluctantly departed.  He didn’t envy Dr. Young’s job of having to inform the Russian that he was headed back to the operating room.  If he were going for honesty, then Illya’s sudden bout of confusion had unnerved Slate and he found himself trying to forget that Illya had fallen asleep lucid and woken up having comprehension difficulties.  

 

_It will be better when Solo gets back.  It had better._

 TBC

 

 

 

 

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very excited that after more than a year of not doing any new art, I'm got a new drawing well under way and it happens to be an Illya and Napoleon portrait. It isn't intended to be for this story so if there is an MFU writer who would like to have an art piece for their story, let me know.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the many who are still reading. Many thanks to those who Kudo'd and left feedback! : )

By the time Napoleon Solo arrived back and UNCLE HQ and made his way to Alexander Waverly’s office, Lisa Rogers had long since gone home for the day and it was up to him to announce himself by knocking on the door to Waverly’s sanctuary. The triumph of having discovered both the object of Dr. Phoenix’s demise, coupled with the proof that Jerry Beams was Eugen Grunewald still fueled the bounce in his otherwise, tired steps, but in truth, Solo’s mind and heart were being pulled in two opposite directions.

 

Prior to departing Washington D.C. he had, of course informed Mr. Waverly of his finds and what had occurred in Beam’s apartment, but instead of Mr. Waverly issuing an order for the UNCLE traitor to be seized at once, he had simply ordered Solo to report back to Headquarters immediately. Solo had alternately spent the plane ride home wanting to return to his partner’s side, and wondering what Mr. Waverly had in mind concerning Grunewald.  Had Eugen suspected something and fled U.N.C.L.E. and now his whereabouts were unknown?  Was Agent Archer’s life in danger?  Assuming nothing had changed, then Eugen was unaware that his partner had already confirmed that the written testimony submitted on Archer’s behalf had been falsified by Eugen.  Between Waverly and the medical staff, it had

been agreed that no matter what, the official word put out on the U.N.C.L.E. grapevine would be that Archer was in a coma and not expected to live.

 

From the other side of the door, Solo heard Waverly’s voice saying, “enter.”

Solo straightened his tie and walked into the Old Man’s office.  Napoleon Solo had had plenty of occasions where he had delivered briefings to his boss at all hours of the day and night, and it never failed to impress Solo on how tireless his boss always looked.  Solo had often thought his boss was no mere mortal who required sleep like the rest of them did.

 

Tonight was an exception.

 

The lines upon the leathery face seemed deeper, the famous winged eye-brows drooping rather than on the customary verge of taking flight.  Napoleon saw a weariness that seemed to run to the bottom of the watery-grey eyes and he realized that the unique personal nature of this case must be taking a toll on the U.N.C.L.E. Chief.  Nonetheless, Waverly seemed to brighten and his eyes alit upon the object that Napoleon had in his hand before gently placing on the desk.

 

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly said.  “I see you have brought me a gift.”

 

“I believe the ghost of Dr. Manheim Phoenix is looking for this,” Solo said as he placed the tooth on the desk, “and he wants his tooth back.”

 

Waverly raised an eyebrow and played along.  “Well, that’s rather too bad isn’t it?  Waverly next comment was devoid of any subtle hint of amusement or goodwill. “You took your time in retrieving this, Agent Solo.” 

 

“Ah, that’s because I had to find it first, Sir,” Napoleon answered smoothly.  He took a seat without being invited.  He was tired and wanted to stop by the infirmary to see Illya -  not be chastised for doing his job.

 

Mr. Waverly held up the tooth and examined it through the clear plastic bag into which Solo had placed it. “A synthetic version of the box jellyfish poison, eh?”

 

“Yes.  Thanks to Illya, we have a huge piece of the puzzle as to exactly how Phoenix died, _and_ we have knowledge of a new THRUSH tool.”

 

“Indeed,” Waverly said approvingly.  “See to it that you take this evidence down to the lab for further analysis.”

 

“Sir, how is Agent Archer?”

 

Waverly snorted, “That depends on what news source one consults, Mr. Solo. According to Dr. Greenberg, he’ll live.  According to the grapevine, Archer is tragically in a coma and may not survive.”

 

“I see,” Solo replied.  Waverly had just taken the circuitous route in confirming that Arnold Archer may still be in danger as long as Eugene Grunewald walked the halls of U.N.C.L.E..  Grunewald may believe that his partner was lying comatose, but Solo doubted the man was a gambler willing to bet that his partner would remain that way – which brought Solo back to the point he had been turning over in his mind.  Why had the Old Man not seized the traitor? Solo’s eyes narrowed. “Where is Eugen Grunewald?” he asked.

 

Waverly leaned back in his chair and his bushy eyebrows drew together in a look of consternation. “Unknown.  He disappeared sometime late this afternoon and Mr. Rodan’s efforts to locate him have, thus far, been fruitless.”

 

“He knows,” Solo declared grimly.  There was no doubt in Solo’s mind that Grunewald’s disappearance was not coincidental. 

 

Waverly harrumphed. “I’m sorry to say that babysitting Grunewald was beyond Rodan’s capabilities.  He will be dealt with, shortly.  Do you take my meaning?”

 

“Yes,” Solo answered, trying not to show how relieved he felt.  The nightmare that had been his life was coming to an end.  Soon his position as CEA would be restored. Solo drummed his fingers on the top of his thighs. “He’s close by.  He has to be.  He’s going to be coming for Archer and he’ll make his move soon.”

 

“What do you suggest, Mr. Solo?”         

 

Solo’s time for contemplating a plan was short. Sooner or later the bee had to come back to the hive. The trail of honey led right to Archer’s hospital bed. The corner of Solo’s lip lifted in a smile that was half-smirk.  He shifted in his chair and crossed one leg over the other.  “Well, Sir, here’s what I would do…”

 

 

 

*******

 

At 8 pm in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E., a jovial, talkative, group of uniformed cleaning staff composed of mostly a cross-generational group of immigrant men and women, walked the length of the underground tunnel, on their way towards the secured entrance designated especially for them. For the workers, it was just another start of another evening of trash collecting, window-washing, floor waxing and buffing, and many other tasks related to cleaning and upkeep.  The youngsters of the group, as was their habit after the cross-city train ride into Manhattan, had first gathered at BINGO Burgers for their time of socializing before meeting up with some of the older workers to walk the rest of the way to the secured entrance with the new-fangled badge access system.  Not quite advanced enough to be considered automatic, and not fully requiring the scrutiny of a live person, the new, access process for the workers had been quite the talk amongst the cleaning staff until they had become accustomed to it.

 

In the group of workers talking and laughing animatedly were a young reserved man and woman, Roberto and Gena, who had recently met each other.  The two, who had fast slid towards love at first sight, kept to the rear of the group, too shy to hold hands, yet lost in a world of attraction for one another.  The group reached the secured entrance at the end of the tunnel, and one by one, the workers displayed their credentials and were granted access.  Everyone but Roberto and Gena passed into the UNCLE building and Roberto stepped aside to allow Gena to process through first when it was their turn.  Gena’s credentials were accepted and she put her access card back into her pocketbook and proceeded to walk forward, expecting Roberto to be behind her.  Suddenly Gena stopped.  The young woman turned to find Roberto standing in front of the barrier, frantically patting down his shirt and pants pocket.  “’Berto, what’s the matter?” Gena called, coming back to where the young man was standing with a look of consternation on his handsome face.

 

 “I can’t find my card,” Roberto muttered.  “I must have dropped it at BINGO’s!  I need to go back,” he said urgently. 

 

Gena’s big brown eyes widened with concern for Roberto. “Are you sure?  You’ll be late.  You know how Peter will be angry. I’ll come with you and help you look for it,” she offered shyly. 

 

Roberto shook his head vehemently.  “No, I’m the only one in trouble here. I’ll find it, Gena.  You go ahead.”

 

Gena stared at him, reluctant to move on without Roberto.  “Are you sure?” she asked, concerned.

 

“Yup. Be right back.  I bet one of the waitresses has it for safekeeping!” Roberto smiled at Gena reassuringly and whirled away as Gena smiled at Roberto’s retreating back. 

 

Gina never saw Roberto again. 

 

*******

 

 

Not for the first time did Eugen Grunewald curse the cramped quarters of his hiding place, tucked away in the ventilation shaft located in a storage closet in the very room where he believed Arnold Archer lay comatose. Grunewald had only been stuck in that dark, hot, metal and steel shaft with dimensions that felt too much like a coffin, for four hours, but his claustrophobia, combined with his burning desire to get on with covering his tracks with Archer, made him feel anxious. That wasn’t good.  Anxiety gave birth to mistakes, and any mistakes made here in the heart of U.N.C.L.E. NY Headquarters could be costly.

 

Eugen took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. So far, the plan had been executed flawlessly.   He’d gotten away from Rodan easily. The manipulative lie he’d told CEA Rodan about wanting to go and bring back hamburgers for both of them for dinner had been bought lock, stock, and barrel by the arrogant Rodan. The only part of that story that had not been a lie was that he had indeed gone to a burger joint:  BINGO Burgers.  Grunewald had left at around 6:30 pm and not only had he not reported back to Rodan, but he had not called in to report any delay.  By Grunewald’s calculations, by the time Rodan got around to asking about his whereabouts, up to two hours could pass.

 

Grunewald was a shrewd man. He recognized in Rodan a man who would not readily admit he had lost control of a situation. No, instead of immediately reporting the fact that he did not know of the D.C. agent’s whereabouts, Rodan would look for him himself and thus waste time giving the advantage to Grunewald.  Inquiries would be made and the first thing that would be falsely established was that Agent Jerry Beams was no longer in the building, when in fact, the man whose true identity was Eugen Grunewald, was.  By Grunewald’s reckoning, that deception alone should induce a sense of business-as-usual in the infirmary, for he could see no reason that the U.N.C.L.E. agents would have credible cause to believe that the comatose Archer was not safe within the Headquarters stronghold. 

 

Grunewald had already killed once tonight, and that too had been easy. 

With bold cunning, he had successfully reentered the NY U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters at 8 pm using the stolen credentials of a cleaner he had murdered in order to pass through the tunnel entrance used by various support staff.  Early on since arriving in N.Y., he had gleaned a valuable piece of information regarding the building cleaning support staff.  Through surreptitious listening he had learned that a certain burger joint served as a common eatery and social gathering place for several of the cleaning staff members who came in overnight to clean and maintain the building. Grunewald had taken up a remote corner booth and waited to become the hunter stalking his prey. Just as he’d heard, a uniformed crew of young, immigrant workers had gathered at BINGO’s.   After a time of careful observation, he had picked out his victim, a young man close to his age whom he deemed to be a weak link. Taking the access badge was like taking candy from a baby. 

 

Unlike the THRUSH assassin, Botticelli, Grunewald had taken no pleasure in later killing the young man.   The stranger would become collateral damage, necessary to ensure that no alarm would be raised once the young man realized his badge was missing and return to the burger place to look for it. Grunewald knew he could not risk having the young man return to U.N.C.L.E. to report the badge lost, only to have him learn that it had already been used to secure someone's entrance. Grunewald’s victim never made it back to the restaurant.  Like a lethal predator, Grunewald had lain hidden in wait on the route the young man was sure to take in retracing his steps.  Quick and deadly, he’d ambushed the young man, pulling his helpless victim into an alley where he killed him and dumped his body in a smelly dumpster.

 

Now concealed in the shaft, Grunewald recalled how the infirmary room was set up and how Archer was situated in the bed from the one, short visit he had made there since his brief time at the U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters.   Grunewald recalled that Archer’s torso and one arm were encased in a cast and the injured man’s lower legs were held immobile by a traction device.  At that time Grunewald had thought Archer a pathetic mess who needed to be put out of his misery.  That was still his opinion, and would do just that. 

 

The plan Grunewald had designed was simple; Gain access to the infirmary through a ventilation shaft, drop down into Archer’s room, and when he was alone, simply hold a pillow over the injured agent’s face for a silent, clean kill.  There would be no mark on the body, thus no one would suspect anything but a tragic down turn in the comatose man’s health. Once the deed was done, Grunewald would escape the room the same way he had entered and then report to HQ in the morning with an excuse as to why he had not returned with the dinner of hamburgers.  He’d be rid of the Archer problem and free to resume his campaign against Mr. Waverly. Grunewald’s blood pumped faster at the thought.  

 

_You’ve caused me a lot of trouble by surviving being hit by a car, my friend._ Only the silent darkness bore witness to the sneer upon the Aryan features that had grown damp from perspiration.  Irritated, Grunewald used an arm sleeve to wipe his face, then he checked the time on his illuminated wristwatch.  It was time. He would have exactly 15 minutes between nurse checks in order to kill Archer.

 

Grunewald made his move.

 

*****

 

TBC


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year since I last drew a new piece of art for any fandom. I did wonder if I would remember how and hoping to get some motivation, I offered up the results of whatever I was to draw to any author who wanted a piece of art for their story. No one claimed it for their story, so this piece joins the others here.   
> In case anyone's interested, I was going for contrast with color eyes against black and white, graphite. Unfortunately, because Napoleon's eyes are colored brown and green, they are really too dark to see, unlike Illya's blue eyes. I made a cropped version so the eyes could be seen. The cracked glass motiff, is of course, recognizable from the opening credits.

 

                                   

 

Soundlessly and in one graceful movement, the black-clad, Eugen Grunewald dropped down to the ground from his hiding place inside the ventilation shaft.  Slowly, he eased open the storage closet door and squinted to see more clearly into the dimly-lit infirmary room.  It was a small room containing medical equipment, one chair, a curtained screen, and a bed.  As expected, Archer, bandaged and limbs trussed up, was lying, still in the bed. Tufts of Archer’s blond hair spilled out from the bandage that encased his head.  The oxygen mask that obscured Archer’s features was still in place as it had been when Grunewald had first visited his partner.  The low steady beeping sound of the heart monitor interrupted the otherwise still silence.

 

Grunewald stalked over to the bed.  “ _Schlaf gut, mein_ partner.” Grunewald muttered in his native tongue. 

 

Eager to get the deed accomplished, Grunewald made his first mistake when he grabbed the pillow out from underneath the still head without truly looking first.  Had he been more observant, he would have noticed that even with the semi-lit room and the mask obscuring the features, the eyebrows were not quite the blond ones he was accustomed to seeing on Archer.  These brows were dark brunette.

 

Grunewald flipped off the switch that powered the oxygen dispensed through the mask, then he placed the pillow over the face and pressed down hard.  The body remained still and Grunewald relaxed thinking how easy it was going to be to achieve his objective.

 

Then all Hell broke loose.

 

“That will be quite enough, Eugen Grunewald.  Your days as a THRUSH operative are over!”  The gravelly voice of his most hated enemy, Alexander Waverly, rang out from the direction of the privacy screen in the corner behind him.  Suddenly, the screen moved and Waverly stepped out, grey suit immaculate, and armed with an U.N.C.L.E. special pointed Grunewald’s way.

 

A wave of shock hit Grunewald at the sound of his true name being uttered by the Head of U.N.C.L.E. NY, even as he stood holding the pillow over his victim's face.   Waverly had uncovered his identity! His stomach roiled at the knowledge.  Grunewald’s, ‘flight or fight’ instinct went into overdrive with shocking brutality that rattled him to his very core when simultaneously to Waverly's appearance, the body in the bed that had lain as still as a wax mannequin, suddenly sprang to life underneath his hands, with animated arms and legs, miraculously strong and whole.  With a mighty heave that took Grunewald completely off-guard, the patient shoved the pillow away and legs that had, just a minute ago, appeared to be tethered in traction, were liberated with astonishing speed to thrash out and land a harsh blow to the middle of Grunewald’s chest.  

 

The would-be-assassin tumbled backwards and pain blossomed up Grunewald’s chest.  He grunted as the breath left his lungs and he struggled to regain his balance.  Equipment toppled over, making a loud clatter upon the tiled floor and a lean hand with nimble fingers reached up from the bed and in one fell swoop, knocked off the bandage wound about the forehead, bringing with it a wig of blond hair.  Brunette hair and a face with a chiseled chin were revealed and Grunewald found himself staring unbelievingly, not at the visage of a pale and injured Arnold Archer, but of the man whom he also deeply despised:  Napoleon Solo!

 

Grunewald snarled, heart pounding with rage and disbelief.  He looked first with lethal anger at the old man who had ruined his life and was the focus of his hate, and then at Napoleon Solo, who had flung himself from the bed and was advancing upon him with determined, merciless eyes and a P-38 trained on him. In a flash, Grunewald pulled his own weapon and pointed it at Waverly’s head. 

 

“Where is Archer?” Grunewald barked.

 

“Not. Here.,” Solo deadpanned coolly. 

 

“Obviously,” Grunewald sneered and cocked his weapon, ready to fire at Waverly’s head. “But _he_ is.  Even better.  Now this worm and I are going to take a little walk.”

 

Solo narrowed his eyes, his weapon never wavering.  “I don’t think so.  And in case you can’t count, there are two guns trained on you.  Now put down your weapon and maybe you’ll be in time to eat tonight’s special serving of gruel in the penitentiary.”

 

“Go ahead.  Fire.  I can count, but you can’t see, I’ve got my gun pointed at the old goat’s head.  What do you think is going to happen the moment you shoot me?” Grunewald taunted.  “I’m not lowering my gun, so shoot me.”

 

 

_So it’s to be a game of chicken._ Napoleon didn’t blink. 

 

 

“He is correct,” Waverly said calmly.  “Lower your weapon, Mr. Solo.”

 

Solo dared to look incredulously at his boss.  Had Waverly lost his mind?   “I can’t do that, Sir.” 

 

“You can and you will,” Waverly insisted. Old gray-blue eyes stared into much younger dark ones until Solo, reading something there, slowly and reluctantly lowered his weapon. 

 

*******

 

Timing.  Everything about being a spy and living to see another day most often came down to good timing.  Nobody knew that better than Napoleon Solo.  Now more than ever he would need impeccable timing to carry out a plan to end this situation if he had read Waverly right.

 

Slowly, never moving his eyes from Grunewald’s face, Solo laid his P-38 on the floor, as ordered.  Then he rose carefully, hands where Grunewald could see them.  Solo was now without his gun, but that did not mean he was unarmed –and Waverly knew it – and Solo knew that Waverly knew that.

 

Underneath the hospital gown which he had hastily torn off, Solo wore a black undershirt, black camo pants and soft-soled shoes – and one important hidden accessory  -  a small, non-regulation pistol secured in an ankle holster. Both he and Illya had years ago learned the value of stashing multiple weapons on their persons. They had each saved the other’s life occasionally when an unsuspecting criminal element had prematurely assumed that the U.N.C.L.E. agents had been disarmed.

 

Once, Waverly had commented to his two top agents about the unsanctioned weapons they carried, but beyond that, Waverly had done nothing to dissuade them from carrying them.  

 

Every spidery sense of Solo was on high alert, trying in vain to read some covert signal from Alexander Waverly.  And then it hit him.  He was on his own.  Waverly wasn’t _making_ a plan.  Solo _was_ Waverly’s plan. 

 

Napoleon made his expression as impassive as possible. Whatever plan of action he was going to come up with did not include Eugen Grunewald leaving U.N.C.L.E. HQ with Alexander Waverly.

 

Grunewald smiled **l** ike a shark when he saw Solo discard his weapon.  Solo hated that expression for it did not bode well. “Now give me the other weapon,” Grunewald said.

 

“What are you talking about?” Napoleon asked feigning innocence.

 

“You know what I’m talking about and if you don’t hand it over, I’ll make you strip naked just to be sure you have nothing else.”

 

Solo sighed and bent over to remove the ankle-holstered pistol.  This too, he placed on the floor. 

 

“Kick them towards me,” Grunewald commanded. “First one, then the other.”

 

Solo complied, then waited as Grunewald swiftly took the guns and tucked them into his pants waistband. 

 

“Now you.” The THRUSH man gestured at Waverly with his gun.  Grunewald moved closer to Waverly as his eyes swept back and forth between Solo and Number One, Section One.  Grunewald leaped at Waverly, yanking the old man in front of him by the arm and giving it a vicious twist.   Waverly closed his eyes and grunted in pain as he nearly toppled over but for the brutal grip Grunewald maintained.  “Let’s go,” Grunewald hissed and commenced dragging his captive towards the door. 

 

“Eugen,” Solo called, desperate to put an end to this mad action by Grunewald. You’ll never make it out of here alive if you don’t let Mr. Waverly go.” 

 

“Don’t worry, I will give him back to you – when I’m finished with him,” Grunewald said, his voice full of the promise of pain and death.

 

Grunewald reached back with one arm and opened the door.  With his gun pointed directly at Waverly’s head, Grunewald went through the door first, dragging Waverly after him.  They passed through the door into the quiet corridor of the U.N.C.L.E infirmary and the door fell shut behind them. Instantly, Solo leapt to the door and cautiously opened it, only to catch a maddening glimpse of the two retreating figures as they struggled past the Nurse’s station.  Solo heard what could only be a frightened gasp from a female voice, followed by another voice, regal and rich, demanding to know what was going on.   Solo knew that voice well.  That voice belonged to the statuesque Jamaican nurse, Lavina Richardson, who was one of two nurses staffing the infirmary in the overnight hours.  

 

Crouching low, Solo stealthily rounded the corner until, behind the nurse’s station, a shaking, young blond nurse with blue eyes wide in terror, came into view.  Beyond the frightened nurse, Solo could see that Nurse Richardson had evidently been caught off guard, having emerged from the makeshift room, into which Agent Archer had been relocated.  She had been discreetly carrying out of the room with a used bed pan for proper disposal when the senior nurse drew up short, her astonishment and anger at seeing violence being carried out in a place of healing, plainly written on her face.

 

Grunewald and Waverly had now passed beyond the doors of the infirmary. Desperate to stop the THRUSH agent, Solo’s finely-honed instincts told him that,

in keeping with the illusion that the business was nothing more than an ordinary dry cleaners, the enforcement agent entrance through Del Floria’s would be closed for the night.  Grunewald’s most likely destination was Waverly’s top floor office in order to access Waverly’s private entrance as well as the Section Chief’s personal files.  

 

Solo’s world and his purpose in it narrowed down to one thing:  stopping the two men from getting into the elevator.  If Grunewald managed to pull Waverly into the elevator, there would be little chance that the Old Man would come out alive, nor did Napoleon had the speed to run up multiple flights of stairs in order to successfully intercept the ascending car.  

 

Solo reached for his communicator pen and spoke urgently, “Open Channel D please.”

 

“Channel D open, Mr. Solo” an anonymous, sultry-sounding female voice, who evidently knew well the voice of Napoleon Solo, replied.

 

“We have a Code Red. Repeat Code Red.  Broadcast that headquarters security has been compromised and Mr. Waverly has been taken hostage by the man formally known as Enforcement Agent, Jerry Beams.  Repeat, Mr. Waverly has been taken hostage.  Under no circumstances can he be allowed to leave this building with Mr. Waverly, but do not, do not take any shots while Mr. Waverly is being held hostage.

 

“Yes, Mr. Solo,” the woman replied back, the voice having lost all traces of earlier sultriness.   

 

The elevator doors were opening slowly and Grunewald, impatient, made his second mistake of the evening:  he turned his back on Napoleon Solo.  Grunewald, in a quick, frantic motion was attempting to shove Waverly through the doors which were not yet sufficiently wide enough to pass through.  Solo heard a hiss of pain coming from Waverly at the brutal handling of his aged person. 

 

Then, Waverly’s body was on the inside of the elevator with Grunewald on the outside. In another split second both men would be on the inside and once again, Waverly would be in front of Grunewald like a shield, with Grunewald’s gun pressed dangerously behind his head.  The urgent need for action was pressing and  clear.  In the infinitesimal instant where Grunewald was outside of the elevator, Solo’s instinctual reflexes took over.  Solo saw.  Solo acted.  Grabbing the used bed pan full of Agent Archer’s solid waste from Nurse Richardson’s hands, he hurled it with all his might and with deadly accuracy- straight at the back of Grunewald’s head.  The receptacle flew through the air and with a sickening-sound, thudded against the THRUSH agent’s head.  The cover went flying off and instantly, the air was filled with the pungent smell of fecal matter as the semi-liquid solid waste splattered upon Gunewald’s head and dripped down his neck, shoulders and back.  The bowl’s edge sliced Grunewald’s head and blood sprayed to mix with the feces and drip down in a gory tableau.  Stunned, tottering like a drunk man, Grunewald shrieked his disgust and in the process, unintentionally released his hostage. In that split second of action that moved like a well-choreographed ballet, the door closed upon Mr. Waverly, leaving Grunewald outside.

 

Unaware of how his lip curled in distaste, Solo launched himself at the befouled Grunewald in a bid to grab the man’s weapon away.  A silent, violent struggle ensued in which Napoleon had no awareness of the fact that two duty agents had suddenly appeared at the stairway entrance, at the end of the hall.

 

Grunewald, the taller of the two men, held the gun just out of Solo’s reach, but the grip Solo had on the other man’s arm was vice-like.  The two men slipped and fell to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, alternating punching and kicking viscously. Solo’s body was on top of Grunewald’s and he appeared to be getting the upper hand before Grunewald used his strength and rage to effectively reverse positions.  Solo’s skillful execution of an Aikido martial arts move effectively lowered the gun, but still unable to wrest it from Grunewald, the weapon was pressed now firmly between the two struggling bodies.   Muscles strained with unbearable opposing tension. Teeth bared.  Sweat dripped.  Solo was locked in a battle of wills that meant life for one and death for the other.  His hands were slowly going numb and he felt the barrel of the gun starting to turn towards his stomach.  Solo’s eyes widened and he sensed his imminent death if he could not turn the gun away from himself. 

 

“Die, you sick pervert!”   Grunewald snarled both his triumph and contempt for Solo and his love for another man. 

 

But while Grunewald’s contempt was everlasting, his triumph was premature. 

 

The sweat was pouring from Solo’s face as he used both hands and all the training he had ever had to apply Grunewald’s own strength against him.  Suddenly, the gun shot that rang out reverberated like a bone-jarring, sledge-hammer in Solo’s ears.   His eardrums ached and his hearing temporarily diminished.  He felt as though he was a puppet and someone had cut the strings from his arms and legs.  His body felt numb and boneless, and Solo vaguely wondered how quickly he was going to bleed out and die, or live as a paralyzed man.  His first thought was Illya.  His second was, _If I’ve been shot, why don’t I feel any pain?_

Above him, the body of Eugen Grunewald slumped, but in a lightning-fast reversal, Grunewald rose up and began running towards the staircase at the end of the corridor.  At the opposite end of the corridor, two newly arrived agents drew their weapons.  “Stop right there!” one agent called and both U.N.C.L.E. duty agents made ready to shoot the man running down the corridor.

    

The realization that he had not been shot, but that Grunewald was about to be, fell on Solo like a ton of bricks.  Chest heaving, Solo launched himself from the floor fouled with blood and slippery, fecal matter.  “Don’t shoot him!” Solo yelled loudly at the aiming agents.  Voice calmer, he added, “He’s wounded. He won’t get far.  Where is Mr. Waverly?”

 

“Don’t worry, he’s been escorted to the Safe Room and he’s being guarded by Shultz and Okeke,” an agent quickly reassured.  Then as if on que, both agents registered the odor and its source.  Solo observed one agent step back, wrinkling his nose and averting his gaze in obvious disgust.  The man’s partner did the same.  Solo, whose reputation had of late been dragged through the mud, fleetingly thought the humiliation of what he now looked and smelled like contaminated with human solid waste, couldn’t get any worse.  But right now he had no time to dwell on the matter, or how revolted he felt at the state of his clothing.  Solo snatched up the fallen P-38 and took off running in the direction of the stairwell wherein Grunewald had disappeared.

 

Crimson drops left a blood-stained trail leading up the first-floor flight of stairs, to the second, and on to the third.  Solo stopped to look up trying to pinpoint Grunewald’s exact location through the metal railing of the ascending stairs, but Grunewald was too far ahead for Solo to get a visual.  He heard only ragged breathing and the hollow sounds of footsteps echoing up the stairs.  Where had Grunewald been shot exactly, and just how far and where was the man running? Solo reasoned that the THRUSH agent could be headed towards Waverly’s office in an attempt to exit the building using the Section Chief’s private entrance.

 

Taking a deep breath, Solo ran up after Grunewald, his own steps light and nimble. 

Gun drawn, Solo took the stairs, two and three at a time.  He was closing the gap on the sounds of pounding steps and harsh breaths from the wounded double-agent.   Solo caught a glimpse of bloody clothing as well as a whiff of foul air as Grunewald bounded up the next flight of stairs. In a matter of seconds, Napoleon would be upon Grunewald, but the tenacious Grunewald, in a burst of adrenaline-fueled speed, reached Waverly’s floor first, ducked through the stairwell door, reached Waverly’s corner office, and used his shoulder to ram the door open. 

 

Solo was not there to see Grunewald’s face register his shock to find Waverly, calmly sitting behind his desk, flanked by two armed enforcement agents and still one more blocking the door leading to Waverly’s private entrance. Nor did Solo see Waverly’s arch enemy looking around like a trapped, wild, bloody animal as the agents stood, weapons at the ready. The wounded, panting Grunewald could only stare as he began to sway.

 

Solo approached from behind and placed the back of his weapon at Grunewald’s head. “This is it.  It’s over. Put your hands above your head, open your mouth and keep it open.” There was no doubt in Solo’s mind that Grunewald could easily have been outfitted with a similar deadly suicide capsule and seeing how Grunewald was now effectively cornered, that he would employ it. 

 

Waverly evidently felt not.

 

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said calmly, none the worse for wear from his ordeal and prior contact with Grunewald’s fouled person. “I know this man’s mind. It is driven by ego and self-preservation.  He would think himself above the need for such a device since the thought of failure is complete anathema. Isn’t that right, Eugen Grunewald?” Waverly asked with a gentleness of tone that took Solo by surprise.

 

The old man was gazing with rapt attention at Grunewald with an expression so peculiar that Solo could not recall seeing anything like it on Waverly’s face before. Fascinated, Solo read therein a mixture of emotions:  confirmation, triumph, sadness, and somewhere buried underneath the mixed bag was the remnant of shock at beholding a specter from the past so live, so close-up.  Solo thought of how the memory of a blond boy, with one green eye and one blue, once held securely only in the recesses of Waverly’s elephant memory, had come to life and was standing before the U.N.C.L.E. Chief now.  In the intense fray, Grunewald had lost both of his brown-colored contact lenses, thus revealing the physical evidence of the truth of his identity. 

 

“How do you know my name?” Grunewald demanded, panting and shaking in the growing puddle of blood where he stood.

 

“I know who you are,” Waverly assured dismissively.

 

“Then you know whose son I am!  Say his name.  Say it!” Grunewald snapped furiously. 

 

Waverly seemed to look intently into the miss-matched eyes and beyond.  “You are the son of the German scientist, Dieter Grunewald,” he answered, and only Solo detected the slight hitch in the otherwise cool response.

 

“I should have killed you right away when I had the chance when I first came to U.N.C.L.E,” Grunewald said softly, clearly on the verge of collapse, yet the man, with iron will, held himself upright.  “The world knows you as a brave, strong leader, but I know who you are, you coward! You abandoned my father. You abandoned all of us, my mother and me, to the fate of being Soviet captives. Do you know what that was like living with those sub-human pigs?  We were despised, abused, without hope or freedom.  My father slaved for them, and they drained him dry of all vitality and his scientific intellect.  They let my mother wither and die and I, a mere boy was a non-entity to them until they trained me to become a killer just to survive. You chose to save the life of that useless traitor to the Fatherland, Albert Goering.  You deserve death for what you did!” Grunewald shouted. 

 

Having expended the last of his energy amidst the alarming puddle of blood growing on Waverly’s floor, Grunewald gasped in agony and suddenly collapsed in a heap, nearly knocking over Solo in the process.

 

“Summon medical up here,” Waverly barked the order to his agents.  He rose from behind his desk and walked over to Eugen Grunewald lying on the floor, with Solo standing beside him.   

 

Grunewald’s eyes were dimming, the shallow, rapid breaths were slowing.  Solo knew the man was dying and the summoned medical would be of no help when they arrived.  He suspected Waverly realized that too for the normally proper and fastidious man knelt down, seemingly unmindful of the mess from which he had already cleaned himself once this night.

 

“And seeing what you have become, and the man you tried to destroy” – Waverly glanced briefly at Solo – “I would do it again.  But to the boy who once depended on me for rescue, I offer my sincerest apology,” Waverly said gravely.

 

Grunewald’s blue-green eyes remained fixed on Waverly’s face, the features locked in an expression of abject hatred.  His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Then, the mismatched eyes glazed over and Eugen Grunewald was gone forever.   

 

TBC

 


	43. Chapter 43

Alexander Waverly was as an unmoving statue, bent over the corpse of Eugen Grunewald.  The old man’s face bore an inscrutable expression, yet Solo read buried in the depths of his boss’s eyes regret for the ghost of memories long gone. Solo silently hoped that the events of tonight would give the head of U.N.C.L.E. New York some sense of closure for the decision he had made nearly two decades ago to save a righteous man’s life from an unjust end, and the consequences born of that choice.  

 

“Mr. Waverly?” Solo discreetly inquired after a time. 

 

Waverly’s head suddenly snapped up, very much now in the present time and place. “Oh. Yes.”  Slowly, he rose to his feet.  Waverly straightened his suit jacket, and glanced around.  With a sniff of the lingering foul odor, he spoke to Solo:  “Mr. Solo, these gentlemen will take care of Mr. Grunewald here.  I’m going home and I suggest you do the same.”

 

_Excellent idea._ Oh, how Solo longed to do just that, but he couldn’t - not yet.  He was tired and slightly wrung out from his ride on the emotional roller coaster ride he’d been on ever since he had uncovered the poison capsule tooth, learned that his return to CEA status was imminent, and seen the back of Mr. Waverly’s head at the business end of a gun.  A drink and a warm bed would not go amiss right now, but Solo could not deny the strong need he had to first, check in on his partner before going home. 

 

The required after-action report could wait until morning had advanced far more than the wee hour Solo’s watch was presently showing.  He sighed tiredly when he saw just how late it was and he realized there was no point in trying to see Illya this well past visiting hours. For one, Illya would be asleep and two, Nurse Richardson was on duty and as fond of Solo as the senior nurse was, Solo knew from experience that she didn’t make a habit of bending the rules in ordinary circumstances. 

 

Mr. Waverly had put on his overcoat and hat and was headed toward his secret entrance. “I expect your after-action report on my desk, first thing in the morning, Mr. Solo,” Waverly stated.

  
Solo tried hard to keep a neutral expression. “Yes, sir.  And is that report coming from the CEA?” Solo asked, being purposely ambiguous as to whom he was referring since all Section Two agent after action reports were signed off by the CEA first before being forwarded to the Section Chief.

 

Solo’s stomach sank when Mr. Waverly uncharacteristically would suddenly not meet his eyes.  Was the Old Man going back on his word and not reinstating him to his former position?  He waited anxiously until he heard the old man sigh. “It is coming from _you,_ Mr. Solo.  As for when you are to be reinstated as CEA, give it a day or two for….developments.”

 

Solo raised an eyebrow.  “What developments?”

 

“As far as I am concerned, the discovery of the broken poison tooth is compelling evidence of Phoenix’s cause of death, but Mr. McKinney and Dr. Greenberg have led me to believe that they may also be able to  furnish one last piece of evidence that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dr. Phoenix did have a congenital spinal condition, and not that you broke his neck, as it were,” Waverly explained wearily. 

 

Intrigued, Solo’s radar was on full alert and he sensed there was more.  “That’s not all, is there?”

 

“You may not be so eager to formally rush back into the CEA chair just yet, Mr. Solo.  I was informed by Dr. Greenberg that your partner was taken into surgery again before your plane touched down at LaGuardia.  No point in aggravating myself in trying to keep your attention off of your partner,” Waverly said pragmatically.

 

Solo’s alarm switched to anger. His partner had required another round of emergency surgery and Mark Slate had failed to contact him to let him know. Furthermore, when Solo had returned from Washington D.C. he had gone straight to Mr. Waverly’s office from the airport, and from there, to the critical care ward of the infirmary in order to execute the plan to expose Eugen Grunewald.  That whole time, Mr. Waverly had known that Illya was in surgery and had never said a word to him about it.

 

Solo closed his eyes and counted to five in his head. “Why…?  Never mind.  It’s not important.  If you’ve nothing else to share, I’ll be on my way -  to the infirmary!”

 

“Do as you wish, Mr. Solo, but I doubt if you’ll be seeing Mr. Kuryakin like that,” Waverly said, sounding weary.  Then he walked into his secret entrance and departed.

 

Solo looked down the length of his body. The air was still fouled with the faint odor of feces and blood. Solo had no delusions, he knew his own clothing was partly responsible for that smell and there was no way Richardson, or any other nurse on duty was going to allow him into the infirmary in that state.  There would be no help for it and frankly, just thinking about what was on his clothes and possibly on his flesh was making his skin crawl.  He would go home, dispose of the clothes, shower, get some rest, and then report back as soon as possible. 

 

Napoleon vowed that the first face Illya would see when the Russian woke up to the new day was the face of the man he loved and who loved him in return. 

 

*******

 

When Napoleon Solo awoke to the same day in which he had gone to bed, he did so with the air of a man who had had his future restored and who knew that he could take on any task, any assignment and come out on top.  His renewed enthusiasm for his future prospects, however, was almost immediately overshadowed by the returned concern over Illya’s state of health. The Old Man never acted out of pure sentiment, and yet he had brought it to Napoleon’s attention that not immediately reinstating him to CEA would afford Napoleon time to spend with his ill partner without the demanding duties.  His uncertainty as to what was going on with his partner left him feeling guilty for being where he was now in his comfortable bed, instead of by Illya’s side.  He was eager to get rid of that guilty feeling and assure himself that Illya was going to be just fine.  He also preferred not to think about the residual annoyance he felt towards Mark Slate for not having given him a heads-up that his partner had required surgery. Whenever he next saw his friend and colleague, Solo determined that he would have words with him.

 

Solo got out of bed and hastily made himself ready to return to U.N.C.L.E.  HQ.  In very little time he was out the door, cup of coffee and a slice of toast for sustenance in hand.

 

*******

 

When Napoleon Solo walked through the doors of the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, he entered into a place that seemed to be a beehive of activity.  Nurse Richardson, looking as if she had never left the place, was on duty and speaking with a trio of personnel, one of whom he recognized as Nurse Nancy Jacobs from Washington D.C. who had accompanied them on the medical flight that had taken Kuryakin back to New York.  Just then, the pretty nurse who had flirted with Napoleon Solo with a hopeful eye on a romantic dinner, looked up from the forms she had been filling out on a clipboard and spied Solo.  The attractive nurse startled, her doe-eyes widened and her candy-pink lips broke into a welcoming smile. 

 

“Good morning, Mr. Solo.  Did you come down here just to say hello to me?” 

 

Solo smiled in return and cloaked the truth in Solo-charm.  “I didn’t know you were here, Nancy, but let me guess - you’re here to take Agent Archer back to D.C.”.

 

Solo surmised that that was not the desired answer, yet Nancy responded pleasantly enough.  “Well yes, we are,” she affirmed, her mouth still smiled, though her eyes did not hold the same sparkle.       

 

Solo appreciated the lack of pout or cloying disappointment on the pretty face of the woman who had flirted in hopes of an evening in New York with him the last time he had been in her company. Instead, the young nurse looked puzzled and Solo could clearly read the unasked question in her eyes and upraised eyebrow:  _What brings you down here?_

“Lavina has been telling me about the strange goings on here last night. Considering how things are in this infirmary, it’s a good thing we are taking our agent back to get some rest in peace and quiet,” Nancy Jacobs continued with exaggerated disapproval. 

 

Nurse Richardson tilted her head in Solo’s direction.  “Agent Archer has Mr. Solo to thank for the fact that the peace and quiet he’s getting isn’t of the permanent kind.”

 

Nurse Jacobs shook her head and went back to signing forms on the clipboard as she spoke.  “That’s incredible what happened with Jerry Beams. He always did have a reputation for being a jerk, but still…he tried to kill his own partner, and he lied about Agent Solo and the Masked Ball Affair!  I just can’t believe it.”

 

“It’s true,” Solo said succinctly.  “Excuse me, I don’t want to hold you up.  I’m going to check in on Illya.”

 

Nurse Jacobs stopped writing and her head snapped up.  “Illya?  Illya Kuryakin is a patient here?  What did he do now?” she asked in a voice brimming with the curiosity of her profession. 

 

“Nothing. He’s ah….just had some ongoing difficulties since he came back from D.C.,” Solo replied, trying to be circumspect. Without waiting for Nurse Jacob’s input, he turned his attention to Nurse Richardson.  “Nurse Richardson, may I have a word with you?” he asked.

 

“Of course.  Come with me,” Lavina said, then she peered around Solo’s shoulder.  “Nancy, the gurney is already in Mr. Archer’s room.  You may proceed to get him ready for transport and I’ll be right back to finalize the paperwork and get his medications ready.”

 

Nancy nodded her head in acknowledgement, her face registering her concern over what Napoleon Solo had not said regarding one of her former patients. She turned to shepherd the two orderlies in the direction of Archer’s room. 

 

Meanwhile, Solo walked with Nurse Richardson until they rounded a corner and were standing in a somewhat private spot. “How is Illya?  Why was he taken to surgery again?”

 

“Illya’s temperature spiked and his kidney function became compromised enough to require dialysis.  The surgery last night was a final attempt to clean out the bone and surrounding tissue.”

 

Solo felt his guts clenching.  “Tell me my partner isn’t going to lose his leg.”

 

The Jamaican-born nurse looked with compassion upon one of her favorite agents.  “Mr. Solo, you know I cannot tell you that.  I don’t know and even if I did, it would be inappropriate for me to promise

you such a thing, but I _will_ remind you of something that you already know:  We are doing _everything_ we can to keep that from happening, but even so, there may come a time when Mr. Kuryakin will have to make a choice between saving his life or his leg.  If that happens, he’s going to need you more than he ever has. We’ll be counting on you to help him make the right choice.”  Richardson patted Solo’s arm soothingly before  walking away.

 

 

Solo felt himself sliding into a state of flat out denial where he stood.   He understood what he had been told, after all this was not the first time the worst case scenario had been brought to his attention, but in Solo’s mind, there was still no way things would ever get that far. It was unacceptable that Illya’s broken leg would end in either scenario.  Illya was his love.  Illya was his life. There wasn’t anything Solo wouldn’t do for the Russian, but his sinking gut told him that if it came to a choice, Illya would never voluntarily consent to having his leg amputated, even if Solo asked - no, begged him.  Of the long list of things the sometimes cocky Napoleon was sure of, the one thing he was not was that he had the power to persuade his Russian lover to choose amputation. 

 

Without conscious thought, or even really seeing where he was going, Napoleon’s feet took him in the direction of Illya’s room. His report to Mr. Waverly was still due this morning, but first things, first.

 

*******

 

The next time Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes, he became aware of two things:  one; how difficult it was to fight through both the heat and lids that felt as though lead were weighing them down, and two; how very well-worth the effort was when he beheld the smiling face of Napoleon Solo looking down at him. Kuryakin was blissfully ignorant of the fact that, seconds before, Napoleon’s face had not been smiling, but had born a transparently worried expression.  Illya was equally as ignorant of that as he was concerning where he was and what he was doing.  His mind felt strangely sluggish and dull and the angles of Napoleon’s familiar, beloved face seemed to be strangely distorted. Why was Napoleon looking at him with that ridiculously pleased expression, normally reserved for perfectly-coiffed females who had accepted the suave agent’s dinner invitation?

 

“Napoleon,” the word came out as a rough, low whisper.   Illya’s voice sounded foreign, even to him.  He coughed and tried again with better results after Napoleon reached over to help him sip water from a glass. His mind, still dull with fever, began to clear slightly and he began to vaguely remember that he had been taken to surgery in a surreal fog of heat, pain and confusion.  Mark Slate had been with him, not Napoleon.  Where had Napoleon been?  Why had he been taken to surgery?  Somewhere in the depths of his mind he remembered hearing repeated assurances by Dr. Young that he was not going to remove his leg.  It was déjà vu.  The pain and the fear had been repeated, and just like before, to be sure his leg was still intact, Illya raised his head and with bleary eyes, made out the proper length of the appendage under the covers.

 

“Still there, _Tovarisch_ ,” Napoleon said lightly.  “You’re gonna be fine.”

The assurance did nothing to mitigate the sensation of a new and different pain that the act of moving his arm brought.  Wincing, Illya looked at his left arm and found an odd collection of fresh bruising and a hard ridge that was palpable underneath the skin.  Alarmed, Illya tried to focus and recall what that was, but nothing came to him. “What is this?” Illya asked blurted in Russian.  There were too many things in him, around him.  He was sprouting needles, wires and tubes in all sorts of places but no matter what, he could never look in Napoleon’s beautiful, eyes that tried and failed to hide his worry, and tell him just how very poorly he was feeling, or how hard it was to control his breathing that felt too fast and hard.  His back ached terribly and he wanted to get up and go home.  Home is where he could rest and get better on his own, not in this strange, horrible place his addled mind determined.  Illya made a move as if to rise from the bed.  

 

Instantly, Napoleon seized him gently, but firmly by the shoulders. “Oh no you don’t.  Where do you think you’re going? You have to stay here. This,” Napoleon pointed to the source of Illya’s distress, “is where you were connected to a dialysis machine.” 

 

Shocked, Illya recovered his English and croaked, “Dialysis?”

 

“Yes.  Your kidneys are not functioning well and they put you on this machine for a round of dialysis.  You really don’t remember, do you?” Napoleon asked, the smile had faded and he sounded worried.

 

Illya closed his eyes and willed the events of the night to return to him.  All he could recall was Mark Slate being there and then the British agent telling him that he had to leave.  He remembered being in pain, he remembered being so hot and that everything seemed to slide in and out of focus.  He remembered white-coated doctors, one being Dr. Young, and he recalled being moved to a gurney and how sick and dizzy that transfer had made him feel.  He recalled the return of the terror in believing he was being taken to the OR to remove his leg, and Dr. Young’s voice repeatedly assuring him that that was not the case.  Yes, he remembered many things, but being hooked to a machine that had filtered his blood was not one of them.    

 

Illya looked into dark eyes that did not hide their concern for him and he answered Napoleon, “It does not matter.  I will get better.”  And with that assurance, Illya suddenly remembered that Napoleon had gone to Washington D.C. and why.   “Napoleon, you found the tooth, didn’t you?” he rasped.

 

Napoleon smile triumphantly, but the smile faded and was replaced with a somber expression that confused Illya. 

 

“Yes, I did, _Tovarish,_ ” admitted Napoleon.  “I found the tooth and Mr. Waverly found his answers.” 

 

Illya smiled faintly.  “Then you are CEA again, da?” 

 

Napoleon shook his head.  “Almost.  Mr. Waverly is taking care of loose ends and he thinks that time away from the CEA duties is….beneficial.”  Napoleon took a damp cloth and gently wiped away the perspiration from Illya’s forehead. 

 

“You have been away from your duties long enough, Napasha,” Illya murmured, sighing in pleasure as the cool cloth touched his heated skin.  “What is really going on?”

 

Napoleon’s dark eyes were on him, studying him, weighing his answers and this did not sit well with Illya. _What is Napoleon hiding?_  Napoleon’s shoulders shrugged slightly.  “There was quite a bit of action around here last night while you were in surgery.”

 

Illya said nothing, merely waited. 

 

Napoleon recounted how the discovery of the brown contact lenses led to the confirmation that Jerry Beams was Eugen Grunewald.  Grunewald had been sent to U.N.C.L.E New York ostensibly to escort his partner back to Washington D.C..  Agent Archer’s transfer was to occur later in the day.  The probability was high that Grunewald would make a move to assassinate his partner while Grunewald was still labored under the mistaken belief that said partner was still in a coma.

 

Illya listened intently, trying to ignore the growing feeling of nausea that was subtly encroaching into his gut and threatening to sneak its way up his esophagus.

 

Solo was explaining how he had devised a plan intended to keep Archer safe and catch the would-be assassin in the act. “Archer was moved out and I moved in,” Napoleon’s eyed twinkled. “There I was in the hospital bed almost as trussed up as you are now, but with an oxygen mask obscuring my features.  That’s when I heard it. Grunewald came right through a ventilation shaft into the room and moved in for the kill.

 

“Method?” Illya inquired weakly, swallowing to keep the nausea at bay. He shifted in the bed to gain a more comfortable position and had to exert a tremendous amount of force to keep a pained groan from escaping. 

 

“The old pillow-over-the-face method.”  Solo shrugged.  “It’s effective, not messy, and totally unimaginative,” he deadpanned.    Solo’s demeanor grew serious as he explained the struggle that ensued and how Grunewald had managed to seize Mr. Waverly and frog-march the old man out of the infirmary. “I managed to keep Grunewald from going into the elevator with Mr. Waverly.  Mr. Waverly got away and Grunewald and I went toe-to-toe with me trying to wrest his gun away and Grunewald trying to kill me with it. Needless to say, I came out on top and even though I wounded Grunewald, he still made a run for it.”

 

His boss had been taken hostage – right inside the very infirmary where he was and he had known nothing about it. Illya was both shocked and fascinated and the nausea temporarily abated.  “How did Mr. Waverly escape Grunewald’s clutches?” he asked.

 

The suave, sophisticated Napoleon Solo suddenly flushed an amusing shade of red. “I uh…never mind, that’s not important,” Solo said lamely.

 

Illya took as deep a breath as he could manage – and found it was alarmingly not deep at all – and said his lover’s name sternly.  He gentled the command by reaching out a hand that trembled slight to grasp Napoleon’s arm.

 

Napoleon stared for a moment at Illya’s shaking hand and feeling self-conscious about his display of weakness, Illya withdrew it.

 

Napoleon sighed then smiled ruefully. “Nurse Richardson was coming out of the storage room which we had made into a makeshift hospital room to keep Archer safe in. Well…I grabbed the bedpan out of her hands and I hit Grunewald in the back of the head with it.”

 

Illya choked.  “You threw Archer’s waste at Grunewald?” 

 

“I did,” Napoleon admitted, sounding rather sheepish.  “The contents flew everywhere. And when I say, ‘everywhere’, I mean everywhere.”

 

There was a brief silence as Illya’s sluggish mind processed what Napoleon had just said.  Suddenly, laughter bubbled forth as the Russian imagined what that scene must have been like.  The great Napoleon Solo rolling around on the ground with a man covered in shit!  He could not help himself and for the first time in days, he laughed deeply – and paid dearly for it. 

 

A sharp dose of nausea supplanted the laughter and rose steeply, until it was too late; Illya could stop what happened next.  For the second time in less than 24-hours, Napoleon Solo came in contact with another person’s bodily fluids as Illya’s body punished itself with a round of projectile vomiting.  The laughter vanished and Illya, distressed and in pain, could only turn his head away and close his eyes against the smell and sight of the blood-tinged vomit.  

 

“Illya!”  Napoleon jumped up and quickly wet a cloth and hold it up to Illya’s mouth as the Russian’s stomach continued to try and turn itself inside out.  Sweat poured from Illya’s face, and he gave a low moan of distress as the room began to spin wildly out of control.  Humiliated, Illya tried to wave his partner away. 

 

“Hold on, Illya.” Napoleon sprinted to the door, opened it, and Illya vaguely registered the sound of Solo’s voice calling for a nurse.

 

Moments later the nurse who came running into the room was the same one who had once gotten into trouble for having let Illya talk her into giving him a wheelchair so that the Russian could roam the hallways looking for his partner. 

 

Cindy entered the room and in an instant she was at Illya’s bedside, elevating the back of his bed and holding an emesis bowl to his mouth until the vomiting and dizziness passed, leaving Illya panting, gasping for breath and shivering with chills. 

 

Illya kept his eyes closed as with brisk efficiency, the young woman took care of him, removing the soiled sheets and gown, helping him to rinse his mouth and wiping his face and torso. Illya’s throat was burning and he sighed in relief as the cool ice chips Cindy gave him helped soothe the fire. 

 

Napoleon, without comment, pretended to not be watching the proceedings.

 

“Mr. Kuryakin, I’m going to increase your intravenous fluids but I want you to continue sipping these ice chips.  It’s very important that you not become dehydrated, alright?” Cindy said cheerfully.

 

Illya opened his eyes and nodded his head. He knew he had been asked a question, but his mind refused to cooperate in processing the words at normal speed.  It did not matter.  For the young woman who he had once gotten reprimanded for having manipulated into getting him out of the infirmary, he would be complaint.  That was all he was capable of doing at the moment.

 

Cindy picked up Illya’s chart and glanced through it.  “Is this the first time you’ve vomited? I see that no antiemetic has been ordered.”

 

Illya didn’t reply.  He couldn’t remember.  There were too many things he couldn’t remember and it scared him.

 

As if sensing Illya’s unease, Napoleon spoke up from across the room. “I was gone most of the day yesterday, but Mark Slate was here most of the time.  When I see him, I’ll ask.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Solo,” the young nurse agreed. 

 

Illya lay quiet as Cindy proceeded to stick a thermometer in his mouth and take his vital signs. When she was finished, she removed the thermometer and read it.

 

“Well?” Solo asked sounding pensive. 

 

The young woman graced Solo with a fake, overly cheerful-looking smile, which Illya supposed was intended to convey encouragement.  Illya thought the effort entirely wasted.  He knew it wasn’t good.  This nurse had far too an expressive, young face to do well at maintaining a poker-faced expression while she recorded the results.  There was nothing this woman could tell him that he didn’t know all ready.  He was hot, exhausted, and he hurt all over.  It took every effort to keep his mind focused and his thoughts in order to hold a decent conversation. 

 

“His temperature is up, respiration up, and his blood pressure is a little on the low side, but it’s nothing to be alarmed about.” was all she answered. She began to clean up the room, bustling about, cleaning out the emesis bowl in the small bathroom, and balling up the soiled items to deposit in a red-colored bio-hazard container.  After washing her hands, she addressed her patient.  “Mr. Kuryakin, Dr. Young will be in shortly to see you and check the incision site. In the meantime, don’t forget to keep hydrated with those ice chips.” 

 

The young nurse departed the room and Illya watched his partner take his hands out of his pants pocket, approach the bed, and perch himself at the edge of it. _Napoleon looks too worried._  Illya graced Solo with a weary smile.  The smile was all he had to give in place of his longing to take Solo’s hand and twine his long fingers with Solo’s. He wanted to caress that worried expression off his lover’s face, but he would never chance such an intimate action while in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.  Illya sighed, it was not like he had never been sick or injured before.  He would recover although he couldn’t shake his instinctual strong desire to get and up and go hibernate in his solitary apartment to do so. 

 

Napoleon reached for the spoon and offered Illya more ice chips. 

 

Above him, Solo’s own attempt at a cheerful smile was a more convincing effort than, Cindy’s, but then again, subterfuge was Solo’s forte and rather than be annoyed, Illya whispered, “thank you,” through a throat still dry and burning.

 

“You’re welcome,” Solo answered.  Illya’s partner fell silent for a moment but he looked as though he wanted to say something that was weighing on his mind. Instead, Solo smiled and settled for, “Why don’t you try and get some rest?”

 

“If I rested anymore I’d be dead.”

 

“That’s not funny,” Solo said sharply, his smile gone.

 

Illya sighed and did not immediately speak. “Napoleon, I am going to be fine.” This time it was Illya who engaged in subterfuge, for the ultimate fear of limb amputation still hung heavy over him like a sword of Damocles.

 

“I know you are,” Solo affirmed.  Solo spooned up another serving of ice chips and attempted to put the spoon to Illya’s mouth. Illya intercepted the move and grabbed the spoon himself.

 

“I can do this,” he said grumpily and he place a spoonful of ice in his mouth.  While Illya closed his eyes and savored the coolness of the melting ice, the dark-haired man looked at this wrist watch.  Solo grimaced slightly.  “Illya, Mr. Waverly will be looking for that after-action report from me, so I’m going to compose it and then find one of the ladies from the secretarial pool to type it up.  Should be no more than an hour, okay?”

 

Illya didn’t bother to open his eyes when he replied, “I have no other appointments so you will find me here,” he said drily. Solo got up as if to go, but Illya opened his eyes and briefly stayed his partner’s exit with a hand on Solo’s arm.  “You don’t have to spend all day here, you know.” Suddenly Illya’s breath hitched and he winced when a hot, stabbing pain shot up and down his leg, accompanied by a deep pain in his lower back.  He fought to control his breathing and he shifted miserably in the bed.

 

Napoleon instantly came back beside his partner. “Illya…”

  
“Go!”  Illya gathered his strength to inject the word with all the tone of command authority he occasionally used with his senior partner– which, to his dismay, was considerably less than normal - but it was enough to accomplish the objective.       


Solo left, but he didn’t look happy. No, not happy at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all who are reading. Many thanks for the feedback and kudos. I'm also glad the new art was enjoyed too.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to each and every reader for continuing on with the story and for the feedback. Misplaced Agent is on the homestretch now and it's both a great feeling and somewhat scary to think of not having this story anymore to look forward to writing.

Napoleon Solo walked down the corridor toward the U.N.C.L.E. Infirmary exit, engrossed deeply in his thoughts. He couldn’t get over his utter shock at his glimpse of Illya when he had first entered his partner’s room. There was no denying that his partner, the man whom he loved, was ill, but Illya’s appearance had still been alarming, and Napoleon had had no warning of just how ill the younger man would look. How could this be when he had last seen him not even 12 hours ago? he had wondered in dismay. Illya Kuryakin was naturally slight, but his body, though compact, had always boasted of fitness and athletic strength. Now, the Russian seemed to have dropped weight from his slight frame until the figure in the bed looked more like a starved youth. Illya’s crystalline blue eyes had been closed but they looked sunken in his face and shielded by lids that looked fragile and paper-thin. The Russian’s breathing was off – rapid and painful-sounding despite the oxygen prongs in his nostrils. Illya had been asleep, yet once again, his rest was clearly anything but relaxing for Kurayin had been moving and shifting restlessly from the fever that burned and would not abate. 

Against Solo's will, fear sliced though his heart. What the hell was happening? Napoleon remembered with painful clarity how deep the fear and anguish cut through his heart when he’d fought so hard to save Illya’s life after finding the Russian buried in Dr. Phoenix’s pit. Napoleon never wanted to feel that terror again, but he was a man who preferred reality to wishful thinking. As long as Illya remained an active field agent, Napoleon could accept that it was highly probable that he’d feel the same terror for his partner’s life as a result of any number of future encounters with U.N.C.L.E. enemies. 

But this fear was different. 

Napoleon had most definitely felt strong fear before, but this brand of insidious, soul-stealing fear was infinitely worse. With his bare hands he’d dug his partner out of the grave, breathed life back into his lifeless body, snatching him bodily back from the pit of Hell. But this time Kuryakin was critically ill and did not appear to be getting better. They were fighting a war against something too small to be seen with the naked eye and there was absolutely nothing Napoleon could do to save Illya’s life or even alleviate his suffering. The utter helplessness he felt was a bitter pill to swallow and just as nearly unbearable. 

Such were the thoughts of Napoleon Solo when he nearly collided with Dr. Greenberg who, back on duty, was looking at a chart - Illya’s Solo presumed. 

“Excuse me, Napoleon. Coming from visiting your partner?” the doctor asked.

“Dr. Greenberg, Illya isn’t getting better. He’s burning up and that damn fever is draining him dry. What exactly are you doing to get rid of it?” Solo demanded, foregoing any attempt at pleasantries.

If he was offended by Napoleon’s brusque manner, the doctor did nothing to indicate it. The physician’s eyes were serious as he answered, “Nothing.”

Nothing? Had he heard right? Illya had been suffering for days, hot and uncomfortable and Greenberg was doing nothing? The smooth, suave agent’s mouth dropped open in disbelief and he was hard pressed to close it. Sudden heat made his blood boil. Anger made his hands unconsciously ball into hard fists and he jammed the traitorous appendages deep into his trouser pockets and stepped back. 

Before he could demand an answer from either the doctor’s mouth or his neck, Greenberg enlightened Solo: “Napoleon, Illya’s fever has ranged from 101 to 103 degrees. Did you know that that range is the ideal temperature to fight a bacterial infection?”

Astounded, Napoleon shook his head wordlessly. That made no sense. The thing that was keeping his partner so miserable was also helping? 

“As you are aware, an aggressive bacterial infection that entered into Mr. Kuryakin’s blood stream. The only way to treat it is with the anti-biotics we have and as long as the fever doesn’t rise above 104, his body is buying time to fight. Otherwise, his organs are going to systematically shut down,” Greenberg replied patiently. 

Napoleon was confused, “Isn’t that why he’s on dialysis? His organs are already shutting down! Why is this happening now when he was given anti-biotics from day one after he was rescued? Why isn’t the medicine working?” Napoleon challenged. Against his will, his frustration leaked out through the raised voice in his string of questions. 

Dr. Greenberg’s demeanor remained calm in the face of the agitated agent who was normally the picture of control. “I won’t lie to you, Napoleon. We are walking along a very fine tight rope here. Septicemia can be difficult to overcome.” That was an understatement, and he knew it. He’d seen men much bigger and stronger then Kuryakin succumb to septicemia within hours of turning septic. Greenberg continued his pep talk. “With the massive amounts of anti-biotics he’s receiving, Mr. Kuryakin can overcome this, but getting him better is going to take time. He’s young and strong, but he requires some medical support right now.” 

Napoleon took in a deep breath of hair and let it out slowly. “What about his leg?”

Greenberg frowned then. “There are clear signs that some of the bone cells have died and that’s not what we want to see. However, the bone is still receiving an adequate supply of blood. I honestly don’t know how long that is going to remain the case given his current condition, but for now, amputation is not necessary.” 

Napoleon hated the note of desperation that tainted his voice, but he was helpless to stop it. Dr. Greenberg’s answer was couched in words meant to reassure, but Napoleon had long ago mastered the art of distinguishing the worth of spoken words from the worth of unspoken messages in the eyes. In Napoleon’s experience, eyes contained more truth than a man’s tongue, and in Greenberg’s eyes, Solo was reading deep concern for Illya’s situation which told him the doctor was far more worried about his patient then his words conveyed. 

Napoleon took a deep breath and wrestled to get himself under control. “What aren’t you saying?”

Solo experienced a moment of de-ja-vu as he watched Dr. Greenberg’s expression turn from worried to uncomfortable. There was a brief silence full of the promise of an awkward moment to come. Greenberg cleared his throat before he spoke. “Napoleon, you do realize that a detailed report on the health of any hospitalized Section Two agent goes to the CEA? Unless you tell me otherwise, I’ve actually shared with you far more than is allowed since Mr. Roden is CEA.”

Napoleon consciously exerted a higher amount of self-control as he blew out another breath of air. Of course he knew that. How much longer would his not being CEA impact his ability to get information directly? “I know that,” Napoleon acknowledged wearily, “and I appreciate what you and your staff do share. I’m just worried about my partner, that’s all. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Greenberg answered sincerely. “Despite the fact that you technically have no right to this information, you really do know what’s going on with Illya. Look,” the doctor said understandingly, “I’m frustrated too. All we can do is monitor Illya’s condition closely and give him the medical support needed in order to buy him the time for the antibiotics to work.”

Napoleon stared long and hard at the doctor, his mind fishing for some piece of reassurance from Greenberg that, yes, in his considerable professional opinion, Illya did have time. Solo wanted to look in the man’s eyes and know that regardless of skill, the doctor would beg, borrow or steal the needed time for Illya to conquer the infection. Suddenly, the rise in tension drained from Napoleon. When all was said and done, Napoleon had assurance of Greenberg's actions, but not the outcome, moreover, he knew there was nothing he could do about it right now, except go back to his office and take care of Waverly's after action report. At the end of the day, Dr. Greenberg wanted Illya well almost as much as Napoleon did. 

Maybe that was all he could ask for, Solo internally concluded. There was a brief silence in which the doctor waited for Solo's next move. Finally, “I apologize for my demeanor earlier,” Napoleon said sincerely. 

“No need,” Greenberg assured. “Look, this situation is not like any other either you or Mr. Kuryakin have ever been in and I do understand that. I am a doctor and it’s still not easy to see a young man who maintains a high level of fitness like your partner, become so ill from something so mundane as a broken leg.” The doctor shook his head. “You know it isn’t right and I know it too.” 

Napoleon considered the doctor’s words and was moved – not so much by what he had said, but by the frank concern in the older man’s kindly eyes. The doctor did know somewhat about how he felt and that knowledge was both comforting and a bit frightening since it, like a double-edge sword, confirmed rather than lessened Napoleon’s fear for Illya’s life. Napoleon was disconcerted to feel his emotional control once more slipping and he knew it was time to end the conversation. “I need to see to some work now. I’ll be back later,” Napoleon said by way of excusing himself. 

He proceeded to exit the infirmary, and ride the elevator up to his floor. Seeing that he was the lone rider, he permitted himself to pace about the confines of the car, but once the elevator stopped and the doors rolled back, Solo squared his shoulders and walked down the familiar corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ with a deliberate, measured stride. Solo entered the space with its mixture of cubicles and open desks at one end, and large, open common area at the other. The common area was abuzz with conversation from a group of Section II agents taking a watercooler break. At the first sighting of Solo, the chatter abruptly ceased. The gathered agents stared at Solo as the former CEA crossed the pen and sauntered over to his cubicle where, from his desk, he had a view of the open area. Solo groaned inwardly and looked at his colleagues with annoyed expectation. There was no doubt in his mind that everyone, to a man or woman, knew about what had happened in the infirmary last night – including the more “messy” aspect of Beams’ get away and subsequent death. 

No one broke the silence until at last, an agent named Butler, who was friendly to Solo, separated himself from the crowd and came over to Solo's cubicle. “Solo,” the man said with all seriousness, “I heard you saved Mr. Waverly’s life last night from a THRUSH double-agent. I – well, we just can’t believe that he was one of us all this time. Are you alright?”

“Yes. Quite,” Solo replied evenly. 

“Good,” Butler nodded solemnly. The agent looked at Solo for a moment before a slow grin broke across his broad features. “I always heard that Beams, or whatever his real name is was a real ass. Guess he actually turned out to be a piece of shit, am I right?” The agent snickered.

Solo heard the sounds of guffawing beyond Butler and grinned darkly back, willing to accept the moment of comradery, but signaling that he wanted an end. “You can read all about it after I type my after action report.” 

Just then, the imposing bulk and perpetually loud voice of Agent Roden filled the opening of Napoleon’s cubicle. “Agent Solo, if you have no work to do, maybe you should go home and leave my other agents to theirs.” 

“I’d be happy to get my work underway – as soon as you vacate my space,” Solo answered matter-of-factly. 

As if perceiving the negative change in the air, Butler discreetly backed away while the other agents congregating at the water cooler wisely returned to their respective desks. Instead of vacating Solo’s cubicle, Roden stepped close to Solo’s desk. “You owe me a report on last night’s theatrics. I heard that Agent Beams from U.N.C.L.E. DC is dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if he died at your hand just like Dr. Phoenix.”

Solo leaned back in his chair and considered the arrogant man before him before answering. “Well that’s three things you got wrong, Agent Roden. First, U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t have an agent named Beams. He doesn’t exist because he was a THRUSH double-agent named Eugen Grunewald. Two, the man is dead because he shot himself while in the process of trying to kill me, while I was in the process of keeping the man who is your boss and mine, alive. And three, I don't owe you a report at all. This report is going directly to Mr. Waverly, per his orders. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an after-action report that needs to be typed in triplicate per Section Two standard operating procedures.” With deliberation, Solo began pulling out the necessary blank documents to begin filling them out. 

The air practically crackled with tension and Solo had no doubt that everyone anywhere on the floor, was straining their ears to hear the conversation. Roden seem to realize he had somewhat lost control of the conversation and he snapped out the first thing he could think of. “I want that report in an hour!” Roden barked angrily as he loomed over Solo. Roden turned to stalk out of Napoleon’s cubicle, but as he was turning, Solo called out. 

“Bruce”, Solo said in a low voice. The former CEA’s use of Roden’s first name, halted the big man in his tracks and he turned to face Solo, in spite of himself, a quizzical expression on his face.

Solo stood up and walked around to the front of his desk to stand in front of the larger man. Solo’s expression was serious, hard and unyielding. “You may not realize this yet, but nonetheless your time as CEA is winding down. I will be CEA again, but we will both remain as agents here. For the moment I am your subordinate, and soon you will be mine. Through all of this, I learned something that you have yet to discover for yourself - none of that matters. The only thing that matters is that one day you may be the only voice on the other end of a communicator thousands of miles away that’s going to bring me home alive to the people who love and care about me. I strongly suggest you remember that one day, I am going to be the voice that does the same for you.” 

Roden was speechless for a moment. A hint of shame showed through his eyes before it was squashed like a bug. Anger, humiliation and annoyance instead warred for primary expression across his face. The customary arrogance resurfaced. “That day isn’t today. Solo! Today, I am CEA. Now get to work!” Roden barked. The big man turned on his heels and stalked out as if having the last word was the same as proving superiority over the other man. 

 

**********

Napoleon Solo glanced at his watch for the third time and noted that nearly two and a half hours had passed from the time he had left the Infirmary to the time he completed hand-writing his report and found an available typist. Mysteriously, all of the secretaries in the Section Two secretarial pool had all suddenly been tasked with high-priority work that needed to be done right away, per the CEA’s orders. Luckily for Solo, he knew plenty of secretaries outside of Section Two and he had found one who was more than happy to assist him. Grateful, Solo had waited for his report to be typed so that he could proofread it and do any re-edits, if necessary. His report was ready, now all he need do was bring it to Mr. Waverly for signature. 

He was anxious to return to the Infirmary since he had told Illya he would return in an hour. In the Russian’s confused state, there was no telling what his ill mind would conjure up if Napoleon was delayed too long. 

Then there was Mr. McKinney. Napoleon owed his lawyer an update on recent events, particularly regarding the discovery of Dr. Phoenix’s broken suicide-tooth and subsequent death of Eugen Grunewald. Solo was sure that McKinney would view the tooth as the critical piece of evidence that would go a long way in filling the bill for that ‘bite at the apple’ the lawyer had charged Solo with obtaining. In the meantime, he was interested to know what, if anything the lawyer had turned up. His hand was already on the receiver when his mind recalled the words of Mr. Waverly, “….give it a day or two for….developments,” the Chief had said. Solo withdrew his hand and instead rose and got ready to take his report to Mr. Waverly’s office. Unlike his arrival earlier, his departure seem to raise no notice amongst the other agents. 

When Solo arrived at Mr. Waverly’s office, he found Lisa Rogers at her desk, busy as usual. The striking brunette greeted Solo with a smile. “Good morning, Napoleon. Is that the report from last night?” 

“Hot off the press and ready for Mr. Waverly’s signature.” 

“I’ll see to it that he gets it. He’s been on the phone all morning and he went out about 15 minutes ago.” 

“Did he say when he would return?”

The brunette shook her head. “Sorry, Napoleon, he didn’t.” 

“That’s alright. Should he need me when he returns, he knows where I’ll be,” Solo replied. He was turning to leave when he heard Lisa call his name. 

“Napoleon, how is Illya doing?”

Napoleon grimaced. “Not well, but he’s going to beat this.”

Lisa nodded her head in affirmation. “Of course. Napoleon, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.” 

“I will,” Napoleon replied automatically. No, there was nothing she could do. There was nothing he could do, accept ensure Illya knew he wasn’t alone in the fight. That was exactly what he was on this way to do. “I’ll give him your regards,” Napoleon called over his shoulder as he left the office.

TBC


	45. Chapter 45

*******

 

_“An attempt is made to fit the symmetries of the currently observed elementary_ _‐_ _particle spectrum into the structure of finite or disconnected subgroups of SU 3. Surprisingly, the detailed properties of these subgroups have not been elucidated previously. As a first step, therefore, character tables and other relevant properties are derived for these groups. Next, the classification of elementary particles is made on the basis of the representations of the groups discussed.”_

Napoleon Solo sat by the bedside of Illya Kuryakin, reading aloud to the young Russian an article from the _Journal of Mathematical Physics_ as the ill man tossed restlessly in the bed.  The fact that Napoleon was voluntarily reading aloud from one of Illya’s droll scientific journals was a testament to the lengths Solo would go to make the other man more comfortable.   Solo was a very intelligent man, but the dry science of Illya’s beloved journals was definitely not his preferred choice in leisure reading.   He kept at it though, patiently rereading lines when asked because the young Russian’s mind seemed to wander at will.  Illya’s difficulty in concentrating was evident and so too were his periodic bouts of confusion.  Occasionally, Illya’s eyes would light upon Solo as if surprised to see him there, or his eyes would close and he could be heard, muttering to himself softly in Russian.

 

“Illya, wouldn’t you prefer I read you an action-packed Western?” Napoleon would ask hopefully and often.

 

In his more lucid moments Illya’s dry lips would curve in a fleeting smile.  “No, Napoleon _you_ would prefer an action-packed Western.  I don’t because being your partner is like living in one.”

 

Napoleon laughed then.  His heart was reassured that the Illya he knew and loved was still present. The longer he sat with him, the more Solo slowly acclimated to his partner’s behavior which included bouts of confusion and extreme, periods of restlessness.  Napoleon knew the constant fever was draining Illya’s mental and physical strength and he calmly did what he could, stopping to wipe Illya’s brow and offering the Russian the occasional ice chip before returning to read aloud the journal article.  

 

So engrossed was Napoleon in his task of reading that he startled when he felt a distinctly feminine hand suddenly land upon his shoulder.  Solo heard a gasp and immediately, he put down the magazine and turned to find the petite form of April Dancer standing behind him.  April’s eyes looked wide and Solo saw the shocked expression on her face.  He leapt swiftly to his feet, pulling Dancer away from Illya’s line of sight.

 

“Napoleon, what the hell is going on?  He looks terrible! Is it poison?” Dancer whispered, her voice sounding harsh with suspicion. 

 

Napoleon sighed and spoke in a low voice.  “You could say that, I suppose.  It’s a bacterial infection.  It’s in his blood stream now and it’s pretty aggressive.”  Napoleon tensed, hating having to relay aloud the worst case scenario in light of his own resistance to it.  “Dr. Greenberg had to put him on dialysis because his kidneys are starting to fail.” 

 

April stifled a dismayed gasp. 

 

Solo glanced at Illya.  He completely understood April’s shocked reaction because he too had felt that same when he had first seen Illya that morning.  The fact that he knew Illya had undergone surgery not too many hours ago had done nothing to lessen the shock he had felt at seeing just how sick his lover appeared.

 

Thoughts of Illya’s late night surgery brought up another matter and a resurgence of his unhappiness at his colleague, Mark Slate.   He turned his gaze back to Mark Slate’s partner. “April, where is Mark?” he tried asking in an even tone, but not quite avoiding signaling that the inquiry was not casual.  

 

“What?”  April asked, her gaze going from Illya to Napoleon, clearly taken aback by the question and the manner in which it was asked.

 

“Last night,” Napoleon ground out.  “Mark was supposed to be here.  He promised me he would look after Illya while I was gone.  Illya was taken to surgery and he couldn’t bother to tell me?”

 

Understanding shone through Dancer’s bright eyes.  “Napoleon, Mark was called away on a short, but urgent assignment. I don’t even have the details, it was so sudden.  I’m sure he feels terrible about not being able to give you a head’s up about Illya’s surgery.  I would have come myself, but I was across town and Mark told me your plane was landing in 30 minutes.”  She shrugged, “Who would have guessed that instead of visiting Illya, you would end up keeping a double THRUSH agent from blowing Waverly’s brain’s out.”

 

Suddenly the rise in tension within Napoleon dissipated just as quickly as it had arisen.  Of course Mark had not just walked away to leave him in the dark.  Regardless of when Mark had been called away, between the time Napoleon was in the airplane and the wild events in the infirmary, there had been little to no time or opportunity for Slate to reach Solo. 

 

April’s keen eyes locked on Napoleon’s face, accessing him wordlessly before she spoke again.  “Are you alright?” she asked.

 

Napoleon let out a breath of air and rubbed the back of his head absently.  “Yes, I…” he stopped, embarrassed to confess the rather uncharitable thoughts he’d had towards the woman’s partner.

 

April’s lips curled into a gentle knowing smile. “Don’t worry about it, Napoleon - and it stays just between us.”   Having collected herself from her earlier shock at seeing Kuryakin, April walked herself back over to the ill Russian’s bedside and perched herself on the edge of his bed.  Napoleon drifted over as well, but remained standing a few feet away. 

 

Slowly, Illya stirred and opened his eyes. “Hi there,” April said, smiling down at Napoleon’s partner.   For one horrible moment, Illya’s expression was a blank stare and silence chilled the air when he said nothing.

 

“It’s April”, she said, her voice sounding deceptively light.  Napoleon let out a breath he had not realized he was holding when he saw the intelligent light gradually returning to Illya’s eyes which in turn, had a transforming effect on the Russian’s facial expression. 

 

Illya blinked lazily, then passed a slightly shaky hand over his face. “If you are pretending to be someone else, it’s not a good disguise,” he rasped.  Napoleon smirked.

 

“In that case,” said the female agent with a light laugh, “I should have said that I was Mark and then you would have complemented my excellent disguise as April Dancer!” The moment passed and April turned serious.  “How are you?” 

 

“I wish people would stop asking me that.  I am getting better,” the blond answered April’s question, but Illya seemed to look past April to where Napoleon was standing. 

 

The peevish tone of Illya’s response did not escape Napoleon’s attention.  The stubborn Russian was clearly not feeling better and Napoleon knew that his partner knew it too. 

 

“Be nice, partner mine.  Who else is going to rescue me from reading your boring science journals?”

 

“You might learn something, Napoleon,” the Russian muttered and

Illya closed his eyes.

 

April Dancer’s visit lasted a little more than an hour.  During that time, Dancer had talked of light matters – even regaling Illya, whose love of jazz music was well known, with a tale of a new avant-garde jazz club her latest date had taken her to.  The bass player had been first-rate and as it had turned out, the professional musician knew Kuryakin, having once played bass with him.

 

Though it was a desire to visit with Illya that had initially brought Dancer to the infirmary, throughout the interaction, the vivacious agent had kept one eye on Kuryakin and the other on Solo.  Dancer was growing increasingly concerned for both men.  It was clear to April that Solo’s worry for Illya was growing exponentially for as the visit progressed, Illya had begun to refuse the ice chips Solo tried to feed him.  Over time, Illya’s breathing had sounded shallow, more rapid and twice the Russian had appeared unable to maintain a coherent stream of thought. At one point when Kuryakin had opened his eyes again, he had looked both surprised and confused to find April sitting there. 

Apparently, Kuryakin had thought April had come to wheel him over to the courtroom to attend the first day of Napoleon’s Inquest.   Privately dismayed at realizing this, April had worked to soothe and coax Kuryakin back to the present.    Looking embarrassed once awareness had returned, Illya had tried to cover, but the pain he could no longer disguise had taxed him beyond his ability to conceal it.   He moaned in discomfort and he rolled his head fitfully on the pillow.

 

The duty nurse came in check Illya’s vital signs and once she had returned with cold packs which she strategically placed around Kurakin’s body – and Illya had lain there, restless in his disquiet, silently in the face of April’s determinedly cheerful chatter.   In the midst of her efforts to distract Illya, April’s heart ached for her friends.  She was one of the few people on the planet who know of the true relationship between the two men. Without Mark Slate membership in the tight circle, it would have been a lonely secret indeed.  Dancer paused for a time to just sit quietly.   To her, both men looked weary to the core and April wondered what it must be like to have to refrain from the kind of intimacy that normally brought strength and healing.  The simple kiss, the hand held firmly, the tender stroke down an arm -  these were denied Solo and Kuryakin simply because they were two men. 

 

 

As if on que, an U.N.C.L.E. nurse entered the room to tend to her patient.  The woman took Kuryakin’s left wrist to take his pulse.  When she was finished, she checked Kuryakin’s IV, PIC line, and temperature.  When she withdrew the thermometer from Kuryakin’s mouth, she dutifully recorded the temperature reading, accompanied by a slight pursing of her lips that did not escape Solo’s notice.  Finished with her ministrations, the nurse then turned to the visitors in the room and addressed them.  “Mr. Kuryakin really needs his rest now,” she said firmly, by way of an invitation for the visitors to leave.

 

Solo’s eyes narrowed as he took in the visible details of this nurse.  She was unmarried.  She was in her late twenties.  This nurse was new; he’d never seen her before.  He scanned her name tag and read the name, ‘Watkins’.   “Nurse Watkins, may I speak with you?” Solo asked.  The woman complied and Solo beckoned the nurse to come with him out of Illya’s earshot.

 

Meanwhile, April looked up into the steely, fiery look in Solo’s eyes.  _Uh oh._ There was a fight brewing.   _Time to go._ Dancer squeezed Illya’s hand gently, then stood up.  “I’m going to go now, but I’ll be back if it’s okay.”    Dancer wasn’t entirely sure that Illya understood her.  The Russian’s eyes were closed and a fresh sheen of sweat had broken out over his brow.  Dancer glanced over at Napoleon who appeared to be having an intense, one-way conversation with the nurse.  She mouthed the words, ‘good-bye’ to an oblivious Solo and then she was gone. 

 

 

*******

 

Napoleon Solo had found himself once again locking horns with a medical person and he was more than a little upset.  His partner was in pain, his fever had increased and instead of giving the Russian some effective pain medication, the Watkins nurse that had come in to check his partner had done nothing but attempt to throw Solo out of Illya’s sickroom – and all of that was before she had unintentionally told him a new bit of worrisome news:   Illya’s spleen and liver functions were inching towards below normal levels.

 

Well, Napoleon Solo had had news for the nurse.  Thanks to Mr. Waverly, Solo was not going anywhere.  Nonetheless, he rubbed his hand over his face, with a pang of regret.   He was no bully.  At any other time, the way in which he had spoken to Nurse Watkins would have strained his gentleman’s code of behavior towards women, but his only concern was in making sure that Nurse Watkins knew that he was Illya Kuryakin’s partner and that he was not leaving the room.

 

Thankfully, Nurse Watkins heard him. 

 

Not only had the nurse heard him, later when Napoleon was slouched in the chair next to Kuryakin’s bed dozing uncomfortably, the nurse had miraculously commandeered a footrest for Solo’s feet and an extra pillow for his bobbing head.  He had not intended to fall asleep, but Illya was and so despite himself, Napoleon also slept, oblivious to the nurse’s good deed.  

 

_The vast expanse of harsh terrain, hot and dry, was both their enemy and their friend. At the moment, it was also the desert’s unique topography that was affording them refuge against their THRUSH pursuers, but the relentless heat, biting flies and dehydration made the land as much a dangerous and merciless enemy as THRUSH.   In between a small overhang of a massive rock formation and shallow dip in the earth, Napoleon and Illya lay cramped into an impossibly small place, packed tightly together in an attempt to avoid capture.  They had no weapons to defend themselves, no water to assuage their burning thirst or to wash the cuts which their exposed skin had suffered, both having lost their canteens, protective outerwear, weapons and communicator pens some time ago in a mission gone horribly sideways.   They had only one plan and that was to stay put until sufficient time had passed for the THRUSH agents to assume that their quarry had gotten hopelessly lost in the harsh desert and give up the pursuit._

_The heat and agony of unquenched thirst were not the worst of it though.  The compact, lithe body of Illya Kuraykin lay pressed tightly against the front of Solo’s body, which left the older man trying to avoid inhaling strands of overly-long, silken blond locks into his mouth and nostrils._

_It was unbearably hot and Napoleon Solo had become aware of a peculiar aspect of his misery:_

_The heat generating between their bodies was not all due to the temperature of heated skin next to heated bare flesh.  Illya’s firm buttocks and strong thighs were pressed against Napoleon’s lower half with the Russian’s torn, khaki trousers hardly supplied a sufficient buffer between Solo’s groin and Illya’s buttocks.  Indeed, Solo felt the form of every masculine firmness and curve of his Russian partner._

_Intensely._

_Heat was generating down Solo’s loins and his organ was stiffening in a most rebellious, inconvenient manner.  This was not the time, nor the place for a sexual reaction.  Illya’s body shifted in a most tantalizing manner.  “Be still,” Solo hissed._

_Rather than cease moving as discipline and circumstances demanded, Kuryakin’s body moved again in what felt like one forceful tremor that sent sparks flying through Napoleon’s own body._

_Solo bit back a groan.  “Illya…”_

_His partner made no reply.  The heat stifling and the air in the compressed space had grown thin.  There was a growing darkness and what to Solo felt like an odd, heavy electric feeling in the air that felt….wrong._

_It was wrong – all wrong._

_But the movement of perfectly muscled back and ass increased in speed and intensity._ _Pebbles, dust, and dirt started to escape in a cloud and shower from beyond the borders of their hiding place.  It was be as clear as any signal could be to THRUSH.  Napoleon, who had one arm draped across Illya’s torso, vainly attempted to press Kuryakin still to no avail.  The body in front of him was moving faster, bucking wildly out of control with such force that Napoleon’s back was being ground painfully into the harsh rocks behind him._

_Illya!  Napoleon opened his mouth, crying his partner’s name aloud in alarm._

Napoleon’s eyes flew open and he nearly sky-rocketed out of his chair.  In an instant, Napoleon Solo was thrust from the dream-induced,  claustrophobic hiding place, into a nightmare happening right now in one sterile room of the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary.  Underneath Napoleon’s hands, Illya Kuraykin was violently seizing on the bed.  The Russian’s eyes had rolled back into his head.  The oxygen prongs were hanging askew from his nostrils and his back was bowed in a painful-looking contortion.  The slight body was shaking so hard that the bed was rattling.   Horrified, Napoleon leapt to the door and wrenched it open.   “Help!  I need help here now!” he shouted loudly before turning to tear back to Illya’s side.  For a moment frozen in time, Napoleon stood by the bedside, unable to move as he watched Illya helplessly seizing in the bed.  Solo’s mind flashed back to another place and time when he had stood paralyzed in dismay at the sight of his partner.  It was had been early-on in their partnership when Illya had been dosed with a powerful, fear-inducing drug.  Solo had found his partner, huddled under a piece of furniture, shivering and shaking uncontrollably in mindless terror.   The shock of seeing the stalwart Russian so out of his mind had paralyzed Solo momentarily as he had stared at the cowering man, much like now.

 

Solo suddenly snapped out of his paralysis and he rushed over and attempted to restrain the convulsing Russian by the arms.  At the same time, several UNCLE medical personnel burst into the room and Solo was unceremoniously shoved aside and relegated to the role of helpless bystander.  So intent was Solo’s gaze on the his partner, that he did not register the fact that Nurse Richardson was now back on duty as she leapt into action alongside of Dr. Greenberg.

 

Greenberg spared Napoleon a glance long enough to bark an order for him to leave the room in a voice that left no room for argument.  Illya was still in the grip of the seizure.   Solo felt the helplessness of the situation keenly and he hated it.  Slowly, he began to back away from the sight and sounds of what was occurring in the room, and back towards the door. He felt as though a slowly descending elevator had suddenly been let loose to plunge 15-stories down.  _This can’t be happening._ Solo’s mind wanted to deny, and yet it was.   

 

Solo walked out of the room and got only as far as the hallway before his back slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floor in his well-tailored suit.   He couldn’t care less who saw him in this uncharacteristically undignified position, and he cared nothing for any gossip that might arise.  He didn’t care about anything except for the man battling a medical crisis on the other side of the door.   Solo forced himself to take a deep breath and remember how tough a man his lover was.    So Illya had a seizure.  Greenberg and Richardson would find out why and fix it.   

 

They had to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	46. Chapter 46

*******

 

“Mr. Solo,” a smooth, Jamaican Island-rich voice said.

 

Napoleon’s head snapped up and he saw the statuesque figure of Nurse Richardson standing in front of him.  He had no idea how much time had passed, though he assumed it could not have been long.  No staff member would have observed him sitting on the floor like that and not checked on his welfare.  He scrambled to his feet.  “Illya?”  All of Napoleon’s worry, hope and love were poured into that one name.

 

Lavina Richardson’s brown eyes conveyed warmth and reassurance.  “The seizure has stopped and Mr. Kuryakin is resting now.  Dr. Greenberg has a fairly good idea of what’s going on but he’s ordered a series of tests to be sure.”

 

“I need to see Illya,” Napoleon stated, and started to walk towards Illya’s door.

 

“Wait, Mr. Solo.  Give Dr. Greenberg a chance to speak with you in private before you go in.”

 

Bitterness arose in Napoleon’s heart.  “What for?  He’s already reminded me that I’m not CEA and thus not entitled to Illya’s health information.”

 

Richardson clucked her tongue and left off with the formal address.  “That’s where you’re wrong, Napoleon.  You are Illya’s partner and as such, you are practically his living next of kin.  Mr. Waverly spoke to Dr. Greenberg and gave express permission for all information to be freely shared with you.”

 

“He did?”  Solo asked, taken off guard and a bit touched by the order.   The Old Man was a continual bag of surprises.  First, he'd given Solo leave to be with his sick partner and now formal access to Illya's medical information. This level of consideration from Waverly was unprecedented and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was just another gesture to assuage Waverly’s guilt about the hell, he had put Napoleon through.  If so, it had not been necessary. Solo already forgiven the U.N.C.L.E. chief for doing what he thought was best, but nonetheless, Solo would take the gesture anyway.

 

Solo was anxious to check on Illya, but he reigned in the impulse to barge in and waited for Dr. Greenberg to come out.  He was rewarded when less than a minute later, the doctor emerged from Illya’s room.  

 

“Napoleon, come with me down to the nurses’ station so I can explain what’s going on.”

 

Napoleon dutifully walked with the doctor and when they reached the station, he waited impatiently while the other man wrote a few notes on his clipboard.  When he was finished, Greenberg laid the chart aside and spoke. “It looks worse than it is.  If the seizure was caused by what I think, then we’ve caught it in time before it could do lasting damage.”

 

“What is it you think he has?” Napoleon asked warily, both relieved and still consumed with worry.

 

“I strongly believe that Illya is suffering from toxic-metabolic encephalopathy.”

 

Napoleon shook his head, bewildered.  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what that is.”

 

“It’s an acute condition of brain dysfunction and it’s actually fairly common with very ill patients.  It’s most common symptom is confusion or delirium, or both.  Sometimes, as in Illya’s case, it can lead to seizures. There are a number of causes, but as it pertains to Illya, I'm sure it's infection rather than organ failure.”  Greenberg held up a hand to stay Napoleon’s question.  “Yes, it can be life-threatening because, as I stated it’s fairly common, but it’s also known to be an under recognized and undertreated condition.  The good news is that this condition is usually reversible.  That’s why I’ve deemed it prudent to immediately get him started on a course of treatment now before I even have his confirmation CBC and metabolic test results back.” 

 

Napoleon felt a tension-releasing wave pass through him at hearing Greenberg’s diagnosis.  Despite the good news, a terrible vision of Illya convulsing under his hands arose unbidden in his mind and Napoleon briefly closed his eyes against it. He wished in vain that he could banish that memory forever because it was a close second to seeing Illya’s dead hand sticking up through a dirt pit.   Napoleon shut down that thought and refocused on his objective.   “Thank you, Dr. Greenberg.  You’ll let me know if the tests confirm your preliminary diagnosis correct?” 

“Of course. Go see your partner now,” Greenberg encouraged. 

Napoleon nodded his head and with quick steps, walked back to his partner’s room.

 

 

*******

 

He felt as though he’d been on a long journey and walked every mile of it.  Too bad he couldn’t remember any of the sights and sounds of the trip.  Illya supposed that was a good thing though – apparently it had not been a good one for every muscle in his body hurt.  He had had no idea why until Dr. Greenberg had explained that he had suffered a seizure.

 

When he had first opened his eyes, it was to the sight of two tall figures peering down at him like gargoyles until the features morphed and clarified into those of Dr. Greenberg and Nurse Richardson.  They had asked him questions – too many questions to which he could not answer correctly, but he knew he was supposed to.  It frightened him that he got so many things wrong.  He felt as though he was slipping away and reality was becoming an unreliable, fading thing without an anchor.  That scared him more than being told he’d suffered a seizure, though he had never before experienced one. 

 

Napoleon was his anchor.  Where was Napoleon?  Had he gone on the same bad journey?

 

He’d asked after his partner and been reassured that once they were finished with the newest round of poking and prodding, they would send his partner back in.   It seemed like a long time, but true to their word, when they had packed up their instruments and ceased their handling of his person, the door opened and Napoleon walked in. 

 

Illya blinked and focused his gaze on Napoleon.  Napoleon was smiling, but his face looked pale underneath the perpetually tanned skin and his dark eyes were somber.  His normally impeccable hair was not quite so impeccable-looking with a lock or two having made a break for independence.   Illya deduced correctly that Napoleon had been scared and that he was the reason. 

 

It seemed to Illya that it took all of his strength to gesture Napoleon over and to pat the bed for this partner to sit next to him.   “I’m sorry, Napoleon”.   Illya cringed inside.  What good would a useless apology do?  He’d been in hell and he’d obviously dragged his lover down there with him.  The words, sluggish as they were on his tongue, nonetheless tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

 

Napoleon shrugged and grasped Illya by the shoulder.  “There’s nothing to apologize for – unless you gave yourself a seizure just for the fun of it.”

 

Illya grimaced. “No, but if I did, I don’t remember the fun part.”

 

“How do you feel?” Napoleon asked.

 

Illya’s mind distorted reality again, pulling him away from what was real.

 

 _What?  Had Napoleon asked him how much ketchup was?  Why did Napoleon put ketchup on everything…_ Illya tossed restlessly until he felt firm hands on his forearms.   Illya struggled to clear his head from the mist that seemed to descend in and around his mind at will.

Napoleon’s mouth was moving.  The other man was asking him something. 

 

This time, the words make sense to Illya.  Napoleon was asking again how he was feeling.

 

Illya did not even have the energy to sigh.  He fought to give his partner a coherent answer.  “Everything hurts. My head.  My leg.  My hair.  Everything.”   It was true. For the first time he was thankful for the Foley catheter that was in place otherwise he was sure he would have wet his bed like a child during the seizure.  But then again, his kidneys were not functioning well as evidenced by the dialysis machine to which he was once again hooked.  The violent seizure had taken a lot from him – his control, his dignity, even a small corner of his courage.  The fear, residing deep down, that he would have another one and perhaps even suffer permanent brain damage was worse than anything.

 

Illya was aware that Dr. Greenberg had been there.  The doctor had explained what had happened, but the only thing he retained from that conversation was that the infection had done something to his brain and that Dr. Greenberg had tried to reassure him that he could take care of it. 

 

Truth be told, for the few times in his adult life, Illya Kuryakin’s indomitable will was faltering.  This was different from when he had fought for his life after the mad scientist had thrown him into a pit. The feeling of strength waning, of mental faculties dimming, along with the symptoms of organs on the verge of shutting down, were intensifying as time passed.  At the same time he knew his moments in the waking world, when clarity of thought broke through the veil of confusion clouding his mind, were getting shorter.  Sleep was elusive and afforded him no refuge either.  Right before the seizure he had been awakened from a period of restless dozing with an intense feeling of impending doom weighing heavily on him.  His heart had pounded in his chest and he could scarily breathe.  He had known without knowing how that something bad was about to happen.  His body was betraying him and desperately, he had opened his mouth to call for help from the sleeping Napoleon, but no sound had come out. Too late, he had the distinct impression of falling backwards and spiraling down into a dark, dank pit, that was all too like the one Phoenix had buried him  in, and then he had known no more. 

 

In the current hour, Illya lay quietly watching Napoleon. The older man sat unmoving, staring down at his folded hands which lay over one crossed leg. Illya read how deeply worried Napoleon was by his body language alone. Even though Napoleon’s career was finally on the verge of being totally restored, the senior enforcement agent was just now freshly emerging from what had been a career-destroying nightmare. It appeared to Illya, that Napoleon was being put through the proverbial emotional wringer all over again, and this time, it was all because of him. Foolishly, Illya wondered if his partner’s witnessing his seizure would be the last straw. Would Napoleon decide that being in a romantic relationship with him wasn’t worth this kind of emotional pain? In the Russian’s weakened, vulnerable state, fear and doubt raised ugly heads. Illya gazed at Napoleon, wondering, both, at what he could say that would not sound false, and how long he would be in a clear enough state of mind to be able to say it. It was so very hard to think. He tried to find a more comfortable position in the bed, but it was impossible. The heat, the chills, his racing heart, the many ways his body was signaling to him of a steady shut down were wearing him down. He was in too much pain, and he felt too ill and keenly aware of his dwindling strength being leached from him. 

 

Suddenly, Napoleon shifted his gaze from where he had been studying his hands, and he looked up as Illya moved restlessly in the bed.  Solo sprang into action.   “Let me.”  Solo stood up and rearranged the pillows around Illya’s neck and back.  “Better?” he asked hopefully.

 

“Yes,” Illya lied.  


“Liar,” Napoleon answered with a knowing, soft expression.   Napoleon sighed.  “You need to eat.  You know if you don’t Greenberg will put a feeding tube in.”  

 

“ _Nyet_.” Illya said forcefully.  The mere thought of food was still enough to make his stomach churn in rebellious warning.  Despite the anti-nausea medication Greenberg had added to the swirling cocktail of drugs being pumped in, the nausea had never really abated.  He didn’t have the energy to eat and he couldn’t spare the expenditure of energy in vomiting either.

 

Napoleon bit his lip and did not immediately say anything else.  Finally, and with a hint of desperation coloring his voice, he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?” 

 

“You are doing it, Napasha,” Illya replied softly.

 

That was the last coherent conversation Illya was to remember for quite some time. The afternoon hours dragged themselves into evening.  Inside the window-less infirmary, there were no outside views to mark the passage of time and thus outside of one’s watch, time had no meaning.  For Illya, there was either a state of wakefulness or something not quite, yet not sleep either.

 

There was no rest.  There was no peace.

 

Hours after the seizure, a paranoia had insidiously crept over Illya.  His illness was responsible for a new campaign of whispered lies in his mind and the recurring theme featured Napoleon being in danger. Napoleon bleeding.  Napoleon kidnapped.  Napoleon with his career in tatters. It hardly mattered that his muddled mind could not identify the source of the danger.  Deep down, Illya was convinced that peril stalked his partner and that Napoleon was oblivious to it.   Repeatedly, Illya tried to communicate his thoughts to Napoleon, but the other man seemed oddly incapable of understanding.  Napoleon continued to sit and blather things that made no sense to Illya.  Therefore, it was up to Illya to protect Napoleon if the man whom he loved could not protect himself.   There were unseen enemies all around and he needed to remain vigilant.  In being vigilant for his partner, Illya also hoped to keep the specter of a recurrence of another seizure, with its frightening, swirling darkness, from taking him down again.

 

He didn’t get his wish.

 

*******

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for continued reading. 
> 
> To any new readers: welcome aboard!


	47. Chapter 47

Napoleon stayed well into the evening until official visiting hours were over.  He had come to UNCLE headquarters appropriately attired in his suite since he had first come to conduct business.  Solo wore a well-tailored suit like a second skin, but after hours of sitting in the confines of the infirmary, he was thoroughly ready to shed it in favor of a comfortable sweater and chinos.   After Illya’s seizure Solo had ignored his body’s need for food, but hours later, his stomach was grumbling rebelliously.

 

In between trying to read aloud to Illya and alternating trying to converse with him, calm him, make him comfortable there was little to do, so Napoleon had marked time, not by his expensive Swiss watch, but by the change in shifts where an end and beginning brought about a seamless transition of medical personnel.  The revolving parade of nurses and orderlies had tolerated his presence the entire day, but Solo feared that soon he would have no choice but to leave for the night when every sense he had, every sound of the Russian’s shallow, rapid breathing was telling him that leaving Illya now would be wrong.

 

The door opened and Dr. Young, who was once again in charge, and Dr. Greenberg, who was about to go off duty, stepped inside and approached the bed. 

 

Solo took a moment to rise from his chair and stretch his back while Dr. Young began his examination of his patient.  The number two U.N.C.L.E physician listened to Illya’s heart.  This activity elicited a frown from Dr. Young followed by a whispered comment to Dr. Greenberg.   Solo strained his ears and caught the word, ‘tachycardia’, but the word had no meaning for him.  

 

Young, checked the pic line running into Kuryakin’s neck as well as the dialysis machine’s functioning before  maneuvering his way around the Ilizrov apparatus holding the Russian’s injured, swollen leg together for an  examination.  Solo watched warily as the examination seemed to take an excessively long time.  His anxiety level was increasing with every passing minute as he observed the tight expression on Young’s face and the one on Greenberg’s that mirrored Young’s.   

 

_No, no, no._  It wasn’t good news.  Solo despaired when he saw their faces and the serious manner in which the two physicians were speaking together in hushed tones.  He bit his lip and felt a familiar sinking sensation in his stomach descend to an even lower level than he thought possible. That which he had avoided contemplating, rushed back, front and center in his mind.  Would the doctors determine that Illya’s leg needed to be amputated in order to save his life?  Would it then be up to _him_ to talk his partner into consenting to something he knew Illya didn’t want?  Amputation wasn’t good, but neither was death. 

 

Then a new, more cruel thought came to torment the heart and mind of Napoleon Solo:  Illya was barely lucid most of the time, and sometimes, not at all.  The infection was not only causing a high fever, but his prolonged illness had led to his brain developing toxic-metabolic encephalopathy.   Was Illya even capable of giving consent?  Napoleon had never forgotten Nurse Richardson’s gentle warning that their ability to save Kuryakin’s life may depend on Solo’s ability to use his influence over the Russian, but if Illya lacked physical or mental capacity to consent, then there was no doubt in Solo’s mind that the U.N.C.L.E. staff would hand the responsibility of that decision over to him in accordance with the medical designation that all enforcement agents were required to have in place.   

 

Solo closed his eyes.  He shunned swallowing that bitter pill, but he also knew what he would do, if it came down to it for he would never choose a world without Illya Kuryakin in it.  That decision to allow his partner’s leg to be amputated would most certainly lead to a host of dire consequences:  among them, the Russian’s likely exit from Solo’s  personal life.  From Illya’s perspective, Napoleon would have broken all trust if Solo permitted the amputation.  Solo was highly doubtful that in the wake of that decision his partner would ever speak to him again.  But the most important thing would be that Illya would be alive - damaged yes, but alive.  

 

But if losing Illya were not bad enough, Solo could imagine an even worse consequence for his partner who was here only by the capricious graces of the Soviet Union.   If an amputee could no longer function as a field enforcement agent, would Illya be recalled to the Soviet Union?  Napoleon’s knowledge of just how dangerous and complicated life in the Soviet Union could be, paled in comparison to Illya’s first hand understanding, but even so, Napoleon knew enough to be concerned that lllya’s service to the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement would not be treated with the honor it was due, as it would had he hailed from a Western nation.  The Soviet Union’s political system was a harsh and many times, illogical one and at the end of the day, Illya Kuryakin was to them, a disposable tool.   Like the animal that eats its young, Illya could be swallowed up and made to disappear as some sort of punishment for having ‘failed’ in his post as the Soviet’s representative to U.N.C.L.E..   It went also without saying that Illya was a dead man should his sexual orientation ever come to light within the Russian’s home country. 

 

Solo felt heartsick and a tad overwhelmed at how, once again, things were spinning out of control.  When he opened his eyes again, he found Dr. Greenburg staring at him with concern. While it wasn’t Solo’s nature to avoid things, he quickly found something else to look at as if that would stave off his asking about Illya’s leg, followed by a grim pronouncement from either physician.     The senior doctor did not speak but the voice that spoke next belonged to Dr. Young.

 

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Dr. Young leaned over and tried to gain his patient’s attention.  Illya’s eyes were open, the blues dull from the relentless pain and fever. Young flashed a bright pen light into Kuryakin’s pupils for a moment before putting it away.   Slowly, the ice-blue eyes in the gaunt face tracked the doctor’s face as the physician moved to the side.  “Can you tell me how you’re feeling, Agent Kuryakin?” the doctor eventually asked.

 

There was nothing for a moment but the sound of Illya’s difficult breathing.  Illya, seemingly needing a moment to process what had been asked, eventually muttered a succinct, “Hot.”   It was as though it was all the answer he had the energy to give. He fell silent then as his hands clutched the bedsheets weakly as if warding off anymore of the doctor’s touches. 

 

Young clucked sympathetically and reached a hand down to feel the side of one of the cooling bags.  “This bag is still cool.  The nurses are doing a good job of keeping on top of these.  I know you’re tired of having this fever, I would be too.”

 

Kuryakin appeared to fight to get a deeper breath. “When will I feel better?”  he managed to ask.

 

There was an awkward silence to which Solo fervently hoped Kuryakin was oblivious.

  
“We hope soon,” Dr. Greenberg finally answered.   He coughed. “We may have to consider a few things.  We need you to hang in there a little longer while we figure out where we go from here.”

 

Suddenly, Illya’s blue eyed widened.  Napoleon, sensing a dangerous mood shift in the Russian, was filled with an ominous feeling.   A visible change seemed to come over Illya then. The blue eyes looked dark and wild and quickly, Illya sat up in bed and looked around agitatedly.

 

“This is THRUSH’s doing!” Illya exclaimed vehemently.  “You…you are working for THRUSH” the ill man accused, and Kuraykin, who had  never made a habit of using foul language began to swear wildly in Russian, the expletives falling from his lips like a seasoned sailor. The doctors stood temporarily shocked, and Napoleon felt shock too, but it was only his quick action that prevented Kuraykin from ripping out the pic and IV lines.

 

“No, Illya, don’t!” Panicked, Napoleon gripped Kuraykin’s flailing arms only to find himself plunging once again into the same nightmare that had unfolded hours earlier when the Russian had begun seizing while Napoleon slept.   Illya’s mouth opened and he was gasping fiercely for air that would not come.  Suddenly, the compact form under Solo’s hands went rigid and began violently shaking.

 

With an eerie sense of déjà vu, Greenberg and Young sprang into action and Napoleon, still wholly not use to being the third wheel in any situation, found himself unceremoniously shoved aside.

 

“Get me 10 milligrams of valium in an IV push!”  Dr. Young, without hesitation, barked tersely at his superior as he shoved the pillows off of Kuryakin’s bed.  At once, the senior physician hastened to bring back the necessary medication.   Young spared a glance in Napoleon’s direction. Grim-faced, he addressed Solo with a rare use of the agent’s first name, “Wait outside, Napoleon.” 

 

Slowly, in a daze, Solo backed out of the room, leaving Dr. Young to deal with the still seizing Russian.  Solo’s mind felt numb from the sudden shock of witnessing yet another seizure, especially since he had allowed Dr.  Greenberg’s assurances of knowing what had caused the first seizure and was capable of successfully treating it, to lure Napoleon into a sense that there would be no reoccurrence.  He had been a fool to think that, Napoleon thought bitterly.

 

He remained outside the door as Greenberg, medicine and syringe in hand and a nurse and male orderly in tow, raced back into Kuryakin’s room.   Solo could only wait outside with baited breath, listening helplessly to the sounds of the struggle that was taking place inside that room.  It chilled him to the core and it was an agonizing wait until the sounds of Illya’s distress abruptly ceased.   Then it was quiet inside the room save for the muted sounds of the medical staff buzzing around Kuryakin.  The still form of the Russian was being carefully moved around in the bed while the sheets and gown were being readied for changing.    Napoleon re-entered the room and approached the bed, thinking that he would see the Russian asleep.  Instead, Kuryakin’s eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling in a way Solo found unnerving.  Had his partner suffered brain damage?  It took a strong mustering of his courage to ask for the truth.  “What’s wrong with him?  Why is he just staring like that?” he asked, keeping his voice surprisingly low and steady for all the emotions churning within. 

 

“It’s called a postictal state.  It’s perfectly normal.  It’s just more pronounced than what Mr. Kuryakin experienced after the first seizure,” Dr. Young answered.

 

“I don’t care what you call it.  I want to know what it is and what you are going to do to stop this from happening again. You told me that you knew what was wrong with Illya and that it was perfectly treatable since you caught it in time,” Napoleon said tersely, without taking his gaze away from Illya’s still face.

 

“It means that this is a period of time, usually between 5 to 30 minutes, where Mr. Kuraykin’s brain is recovering from the trauma of the seizure.  He may be drowsy, confused, or even nauseous or have a headache,”

 Dr. Greenberg calmly explained.  The doctor paused a moment before he added gently, “It will pass, Mr. Solo.”   Greenberg ran a tired hand through greying hair.  The doctor’s face bore an expression that clearly communicated his reluctance over what he was about to say.  He opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Solo held up one hand.

 

“No,” Solo said firmly. 

 

Greenberg’s expression turned from reluctant to exasperated.  “How do you know what I’m going to say?”

 

“You were about to tell me that visiting hours are over and that I need to go home.   That is not happening,” Solo said firmly.

 

“You look about ready to fall down,” Dr. Greenberg reasoned.   “You’ve been here all day and I know for a fact that you never left here to get anything to eat. It’s already past 8:30 and visiting hours ended at 8:00 PM. You need to go home, eat, change your clothes, and sleep in a real bed.  You may be Waverly’s heir apparent, but this is my infirmary and what I say goes.”

 

Solo stubbornly sat back down in the same chair that he had been all day ensconced.

 

“I can call security and have you forcibly removed,” Greenberg stated matter-of-factly. 

 

Silence.

 

Dr. Greenberg sighed tiredly, instantly regretting the threat, although it was true. He did have the power to force Solo to leave, but all Greenberg wanted to do was get the agent out of the infirmary for a bite of food and a change in scenery.    

 

Solo’s face assumed a hard expression.  “Then do it, because if you think I’m voluntarily leaving my partner when he’s –” Solo suddenly swallowed hard, his emotions threatening to careen out of control like a runaway freight train – “like this, you’ve got another thing coming.”  

 

Dr. Young, looking decidedly uncomfortable, busied himself with undue attention to an IV line in his patient. 

 

Greenberg studied the set, granite features of Napoleon Solo.  There was no mistaking the fact that beneath the iron-clad will existed a terrible fear, gaping open like some dark maw.  U.N.C.L.E.’s best enforcement agent was terrified for his partner – not that Greenberg didn’t understand why.  The Russian agent was extremely ill and the current condition of Illya’s broken leg had raised both physician’s concerns to new levels.  Still, for a man who had seen his partner injured and in the infirmary before – the reaction of Napoleon Solo – a known lover of women – struck Greenberg as ….intense.  Vague suspicions whispered to him of something off…something different, but he had neither the time nor inclination to dissect exactly what it was.  

 

Greenberg decided to negotiate rather than mandate.  He looked at his watch then he looked at Solo.   “Give me all the ones you have in your wallet,” he said.

 

_What?_   Napoleon was taken off guard by the strange demand and made no move to comply. 

 

Greenberg gestured impatiently with his hand. “Your wallet. Take it out and give me your ones.” 

 

Solo shrugged then went to comply.  When he went over to where he had removed his suit jacket and slung it across the back of his chair he took up the garment and pulled out his billfold and handed over four ones.  “Here,” he said gruffly.  “What do you intend to do with that?”

 

“Nurse Peggy here is going to go buy you some hot coffee and a stale sandwich from the geedunk machine.  And then you are going to eat it.  After that, at exactly 2:00 AM you are going to your apartment where you will get some sleep and change your clothes.  We’ll see you in the morning, or not at all.  Are we clear?”

 

Solo opened his mouth and made to protest, but Greenberg beat him to it. 

 

“Sorry, Napoleon, but it’s my way or the highway, on this,” the doctor said.

 

Solo looked at the senior doctor’s face and could clearly read he wasn’t kidding.  He would have no choice but to comply or risk a nasty scene that would end the same way:  he would be summarily escorted from the Infirmary and cause grief to his partner through an enforced absence.  Solo wasn’t done though.     He had some negotiating of his own to do and he hated the way his voice betrayed his anxiety with just a tinge of desperation.  “Dr. Greenberg, look, Illya’s coming around.”   It was true.  Solo had seen that his partner was gaining awareness as the blond head began to move against the pillow and the blue eyes blink open.  A low moan, the sound of which was full of pain and confusion, escaped from Illya.

 

Napoleon quickly moved to his partner’s side and gripped the long-fingered hand tenderly.  He gave it a gentle squeeze before addressing Dr. Greenberg.  “I’ll go.   Give me one hour to make sure Illya is ok and then I’ll leave and come back in the morning.  Okay?” Napoleon did not wait for a response though he heard the note of pleading in his voice and detested it.  He’d made his final offer and Greenberg would do what Greenberg would do.

 

Greenberg looked between the two men.   Solo was bent over Kuryakin, whispering something softly to the Russian as the Russian struggled to come back to himself.  The doctor looked between Illya’s hand wrapped securely in Napoleon’s and back up to the dark-haired man’s face, so full of fearful hope and sorrow too.  Greenberg’s eyes narrowed when his mind suddenly recalled the ridiculous accusation the man known as Agent Beams was alleged to have made about Napoleon Solo.  The tale of that particular incident that had taken place during the Inquest had reached into even the bowels of the U.N.C.L.E. HQ infirmary, due to the outrageousness of the very idea of a playboy like Napoleon Solo being sexually attracted to a man.  Greenberg, once he'd heard it, had burst out laughing, summarily dismissed it, and warned his staff that he didn't want to hear the story repeated in his infirmary.   

 

Now however, the revelation of what he was seeing fell on him like a ton of bricks, taking him by surprise and his eyes went from narrow to wide. _Napoleon Solo is in love with Illya Kuryakin!_ Shocked at this conclusion _,_ Greenberg quickly turned away before anyone could see his face and ask what was wrong. If what he had concluded was true, then Napoleon was going through an unimaginable Hell.  He wasn’t just seeing his partner fighting a difficult battle for his life.  He was watching the man he loved suffer with health that seemed to be failing him at every turn all the while having to pretend they were nothing more than professional partners.   And what of Illya Kuryakin?  Was it even possible that the taciturn Russian was a closeted homosexual? Did he return Napoleon Solo’s feelings?

 

Laying his shock aside for what he suspected, Greenberg felt grieved. At that moment, the doctor struggled with the feeling that _he_ was letting both men down.  He had seen the same thing that Dr. Young had seen in Kuryakin’s leg: swelling and patterns of darkening patches of necrosis, the x-ray images of a tibia refusing to heal – the sure signs of flesh and bone that were slowly dying.  The antibiotics were not working and by the looks of things, time was running out. They had done all they could to preserve Illya’s leg, hadn’t they?  Greenberg felt sick with frustration.  Those two brave men didn’t deserve what was happening, even if he didn’t completely understand the nature of their relationship.   Greenberg wondered idly if Mr. Waverly knew before it registered that Napoleon had asked him a question and was still, more or less, waiting for whatever response he wished to give.

 

Greenberg applied a neutral expression to face and turned around to answer Solo. “Stay no more than two hours more, okay?” he asked softly.

 

Solo, who had not moved from Illya’s side, nodded his head gravely, allowing his gratitude to shine through his eyes. 

 

“Dr. Young, meet me in my office,” Greenberg, said to his colleague. 

 

“I’ll be right there, Mark,” Young responded.  Dr. Young made a few more notes in Illya’s chart and when he was finished, he then beckoned the other personnel to follow him out of the room, leaving Napoleon to see to his partner.    

 

*******

“It’s time.   You know it’s time,” Dr. Young repeated insistently, a hint of frustration tainting the tone in which he addressed the senior doctor. 

The two doctors had gone to Greenberg’s office to confer, but the conversation had not gone at all the way Dr. Young anticipated.  Dr. Young had rendered his opinion as to what the next step needed to be, but Greenberg was of a different opinion.  Dr. Young was having difficulty understanding Greenberg’s reluctance to concur that amputation was the next step.  He had the upmost respect for the older, more experienced doctor’s medical skills and knowledge, but his position seemed to be uncharacteristically rooted in stubbornness rather than concrete medical evidence.  The facts were the facts and in Dr. Young’s medical opinion, the proper course of action was amputation.  Young rubbed the back of his neck while he paced the carpeted floor of Dr. Greenburg’s office.    

 

“Mark, you saw the condition of Kuryakin’s leg.  Excising a portion of that bone isn’t going to stop that infection and you know it. That leg has got to come off before it’s too late,” Young put forth his case again on the off-hand chance that he had somehow failed to mention the medical necessity of the proposal.  Much to Dr. Young’s chagrin, Dr. Greenberg did not seem to want to agree with what, to Dr. Young, seemed perfectly obvious. 

 

Dr. Greenberg was leaning back in his chair behind his antique mahogany desk.  One hand was absently turning over a glass paper weight as he looked at no particular place, with a thoughtful, troubled expression on his face.  He was silent for a time before he responded to his younger colleague, speaking slowly, carefully as if weighing and measuring the words as they came out of his mouth.  “I realize that the window is fast closing, but I still think we have a bit more time to put our heads together and find another approach before we make a permanent cripple out of a vital, young man,” Greenberg said.  

 

“You’re wrong,” Young said flatly.  “His blood pressure is sinking like the Titanic, his heart’s racing with tachycardia and his spleen and kidney function are darn near in the toilet, so to speak.  The septicemia is winning and unless some drastic intervention occurs, Kuryakin is a dead man.”

Suddenly, Greenberg, ever the calm, gentlemanly doctor, slammed his hand down on his desk the loud crack of it causing Young to jump in his skin.  Startled, Young stared at the senior doctor wide-eyed. This stubborn resistance of Dr. Greenberg, in the face of the facts, made no sense to him, nor did such an emotionally-based reaction.  Bewildered, Young looked at his boss and composed himself.  “Mark, what are you thinking?  If you have another treatment to propose, now is the time to suggest it.”   Young’s use of the older man’s first name was a deliberate attempt to remind the other man that he was a qualified, trained surgeon too, and that his opinion was based on competent medical skills.

 

Greenberg shook his head, this time appearing as frustrated as his younger colleague. “That’s just it.  I don’t.  I have a gut feeling and it’s telling me that Illya needs more time.  I saw the signs of necrosis.  I read his chart and know what his vital signs are, but still….dammit, there has _got_ to be something else!”  Dr. Greenberg got up from his chair and went over to the wall of medical books.  He fingered the spines of the thick tomes until he found the one he wanted.  He drew the book forth and began thumbing through it, without any real idea of what he was looking for.   After a frustrating minute, Greenberg put the book back. 

 

“Look, the latest blood tests show not a significant loss of B lymphocytes, CD4 T cells, and dendritic cells that are essential for an adaptive immune response. I can’t ignore the fact that it’s a positive sign that there is enough of Illya’s host immunosuppression to beat the sepsis.”

Frowning, Dr. Young shook his head slowly. “I’m not asking you to ignore it.  But you can’t ignore the fact that every hour you wait, you risk the chance of sepsis resulting in shock.  Are you willing to risk shock and more major organs stopping to work properly because of poor blood flow?”  Dr. Young was not eager to amputate Kuryakin’s leg either, but the medical evidence strongly pointed to the fact that the Russian was losing the battle against the sepsis with its high mortality rate.  He had no doubt that Dr. Greenberg, knew very well that if they waited too long to amputate, their patient would die.      

 

“I’m the surgeon who operated on Agent Kuryakin’s leg – not once, but multiple times,” Dr. Young said, sounding reluctant but resigned.  

“You are the senior physician, and you know how much I respect you, but I’m going on record officially that I do not concur with your decision to hold off on taking an action that I deem to be necessary to preserve the life of an UNCLE agent.  This is simply too risky a gamble.”

 

Greenberg nodded his head solemnly.   “Noted,” he acknowledged.  “Stephan,” he said softly, “I’m not ignoring or dismissing what you are saying.  I don’t deny that his leg looks poor.  The bone’s blood supply has clearly been compromised.  It obvious the infection has reached a point where abscesses are stealing the bone’s blood supply.    I want you to understand that when you’ve been a doctor for as long as I have, you get a sense for things.  A doctor’s intuition is something some may scoff at, but when used properly - along with medical knowledge, sound research, and the experience of every day practice, it does become  possible to beat the odds – to make someone whole again when they were supposed to be dead.  This is what I’m doing in that small window that’s still open.   I can’t accept that there isn’t another answer because my gut tells me there is still time. ” 

 

They had reached an impasse. 

 

Dr. Young strongly differed from Greenberg on what the next course of action should be, and Greenberg had said nothing that persuaded him that his medical conclusion was wrong.  He stopped his pacing long enough to sink into one of the two chairs placed in front of Greenberg’s desk.   Dr. Young pursed his lips and considered the situation.  He believed the evidence, but that didn’t mean that the older doctor’s experience and amazing track record for restoring broken enforcement agents had not resulted in a substantial accumulation faith in the man’s professional abilities and opinion.  The way Dr. Young saw it, it was like a bank that Dr. Greenberg had made sizable deposits into an account based on his medical expertise and skills upon which to make a withdrawal of trust.  After all, Dr. Greenberg was not the senior ranking physician within the U.N.C.L.E. organization for no reason.  Dr. Young sighed.   Greenberg was in effect, making a tacit request to withdraw on that bank of trust in order to gain his cooperation despite his professional opposition.   The only question now was, would he honor the withdrawal by going along with Greenberg’s request for time?

 

The silence in the office was broken only by the delicate clicking of the pendulums of Dr. Greenberg’s desktop anniversary clock.  His eyes drifted towards the wall behind Dr. Greenberg where there was a framed photo, with an engraved a brass plate hanging.  The smiling faces of a bride and groom beamed out from the photo and Young recalled the circumstances of when and why Dr. Greenberg had come to have a photo of a retired enforcement agent on the man’s wedding day hanging on his wall.  By conventional medical opinion, that man should have been three years rotting in his grave.   But for Dr. Greenberg’s skill and ingenuity in saving the young man’s life, he would have been.   That was only one picture.  There were other photos and many other tokens of gratitude from countless agents Dr. Greenberg’s medical expertise had saved down through the years.   

 

 Dr. Young made up his mind.

 

*******

Solo glanced at his watch and felt dismay upon seeing the time.  It was 10:30 PM.  His time with Illya was up and per his agreement, he was honor-bound to leave the infirmary and return only in the morning.  He had fulfilled the first part of the agreement made with Dr. Greenberg and  had temporarily left Illya’s room to fetch coffee and a sandwich from the vending machine to eat.   The coffee dispensed from the machine had been blessedly hot and after the first bite of tuna fish sandwich had hit his ravenous stomach, the slightly stale taste no longer registered on his palate.

 

Napoleon wondered how the last two hours could have passed by so quickly when it had been an incredibly excruciating time watching his partner struggling in evident, increasing discomfort.  Solo worriedly pondered how he would tell Illya that he was about to leave when Illya’s level of agitation had increased during the short time he had left to get something to eat and drink.  After two hours, Napoleon fervently hoped that his partner would have fallen into a much badly needed sleep, but despite the lateness of the hour, and the dimming of all the lights save for one in the corner, the Russian remained awake, unable to find escape through sleep.  

Napoleon watched as Illya, with shallow breaths, despite the oxygen supplementation, moved his head from side to side restlessly.  Every now and then, he would still and his lids would suddenly slip slowly over his eyes.  Just as suddenly, with a moan, his body would jerk and his eyes would open as if searching for Napoleon.

 

“Shh...”  Napoleon tried to gentle Illya, holding the hand of the slender man.  “You don’t have to watch my back anymore.”

 

“I’m so tired, Napoleon but I can’t fall sleep,” Illya whispered fretfully.

 

“Maybe you don’t want to?” Napoleon asked, his eyes full of compassion for his suffering partner.

 

Illya didn’t answer right away.  Then, with a weary sigh, “I…I’m afraid to Napoleon,” he whispered.  “I’m afraid if I go to sleep I won’t wake up again.” His voice sounded so soft and vulnerable.  His blue eyes normally so alive, and incandescent at times were now dulled from the battle against the infection and fever that burned through him.

 

Napoleon had never hear that tone of voice in the stalwart Russian before and he laid his hand gently on Illya’s head and began stroking the blond, sweat-dampened hair with sure, steady caresses.  “Close your eyes, Illyusha and just let go for a little while. I’ll be here when you wake up - and I promise, you _will_ wake up.”

 

Napoleon kept up the soothing strokes as Illya wordlessly gave his partner a look of utter trust.  Then the Russian slowly closed his eyes and seemed to melt into Napoleon’s touch.  The restless movements ceased and Illya’s harsh breathing gradually leveled out.   At long last, Illya Kuraykin was asleep.

 

Napoleon did not rise to his feet right away.  Rather, he sat for a moment watching over his partner in case Illya stirred again, but there was no restless movement, no sudden jerking awake.  Relieved, Solo gathered his things and went to the door.   He turned and looked at the sleeping man once more before slipping out.

 

_Sleep well, Tovarisch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Illya....the devil made me do it! Thanks for reading!


	48. Chapter 48

 

At 10:00 PM, Dr. Greenberg kissed Gladys, his beloved wife of 30 years, good-night and reassured her that he would join her in bed in 15 minutes.  Gladys, a good-natured and refined woman, recognized an obsessed doctor when she saw one.  She’d seen this before and no doubt, would see it again in the future.  The health of some patient, usually an enforcement agent, posed a particularly perplexing problem amounting to a serious health crisis that he was having difficulty solving, and it was eating his lunch.  Her husband was definitely the devoted breed of doctor who not only looked well after the health of his patients, but also those who kept vigil, and he would often sacrifice his own physical needs for proper sleep.  Knowing that, Gladys’ only response to her husband’s assurance of a timely retirement to bed was a fond smile and a generous extension of the promised deadline by 45 minutes. 

 

Hours later, so sleepy was she, that Gladys was hardly aware of her husband’s appearance by her side.   It was well after midnight when the U.N.C.L.E. physician finally pulled back the covers and joined his wife in their bed.   Oblivious to her husband’s tired and dejected demeanor, Gladys snuggled up to the pajama-clad body and drifted off to a deep sleep, content that all was right in the world.

 

At 1:00 AM Dr. Greenberg lay between the cool sheets with his eyes closed, but unable to sleep.  His mind replayed an endless loop of his activities in the infirmary prior to coming home.  In vain, he’d read through the relevant sections of his medical tomes, scoured his journals and even attempted to have a communication patched through to a particular physician friend who was a bone specialist located on the west coast. Frustrated, he had come up with nothing new.  He had reviewed Kuryakin’s medical chart and knew every single procedure that had been performed, every single medical measurement and vital statistic taken related to the Russian’s care from the time he had been treated at the U.N.C.L.E. Washington D.C. infirmary to today. 

 

Greenberg had considered the miracle of the antibiotics in light of the promise this new drug provided.  In the eyes of the medical establishment, the future was now.    And he agreed.  Greenberg could find no fault in the medical care delivered.  There was nothing lacking; there was nothing that had yet to be done to avoid amputation of a limb that was showing signs of the beginning stages of cell death.  Then why did he believe there was?  The question went round and round in the doctor’s head but the answer remained stubbornly elusive.

 

He lay in bed, trying not to toss and turn so as to wake Gladys.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on slow, deep breaths.  When next he opened them, he was disgusted to find the clock’s minute hand stubbornly resisting advancement.   By 2:00 AM the doctor gave up on all pretense of trying to fall asleep.  With a small sigh he got out of the bed, carefully disentangling himself from his wife’s warm form.  He slipped his favorite dressing gown on, tied the belt loosely about his waist, before sliding his feet into his slippers.

 

Quietly, the doctor padded downstairs to the kitchen and prepared a hot, steaming cup of tea with milk.  Carrying the cup of tea on a saucer, he then made his way to his favorite room in the house – a small, tastefully appointed library filled a mix of fiction and nonfiction books he and Gladys enjoyed reading for leisure.  Dr. Greenberg turned on a reading light and placed the cup of tea on a table next to his favorite red-leather arm chair.  He then proceeded towards the shelves holding his favorite books. 

 

Dr. Greenberg was a history buff and his collection of history books boasted a special area devoted especially to the period that most fascinated him:  the American Civil War.  It was to that area where his feet drew him.  He stood in front of the section and randomly pulled out a book.  He was pleased when he found it was his first edition of _Blue, Grey and Red: Voices from the Battlefield._  Greenberg reasoned that if he couldn’t sleep, then he would at least read something that he found entertaining until he did.  

 

Dr. Greenberg made himself comfortable in the leather chair, opened the book which was a compilation of battlefield accounts.  In between sips of the hot beverage he soon found himself lost in reading letters and journal entries written by those who had worn the grey and the blue alike.  Eventually, he came to a particularly vivid account of one Army field doctor by the name of Cyrus O’Brien.   What Dr. Greenberg read next had him suddenly sitting up straighter and his eyes widening in fascination. The past was speaking to him and in an instant, the cup of tea and everything else around him were forgotten entirely as he read.  He could feel his excitement growing the further he got into Doctor O’Brien’s account, and it was almost as if the doctor’s words were being spoken directly to him. 

 

  _After days of fierce fighting and treacherous ambushes, the wounded lay in rows upon stretchers and still more ambulances came with fresh hauls of the injured until we were nigh over run and knee deep in blood, limbs and entrails. Those who could walk came forth hallowing and groaning greatly.  Medical treatment is crude, but we do what we can in this hellish place. By now there is nothing new that I have not seen_ _,_ _or that is what I supposed until_ _half_ _a fortnight when a L_ _T_ _by the name of Murray, a regimental officer, missing, presumed dead and rotting somewhere upon the field, made an unexpected appearance when he was found and brought to the hospital tent, severely wounded.  His wound from experience, appeared mortal, yet he lived and was not plagued by the normal debilitating, severe illness as expected.  Indeed, he had only a minor fever and beginnings of pneumonia. I, and another surgeon seeking to relieve him of his clothing where greeted with a most loathsome discovery; thousands and thousands of maggots filled the entire wounded area. My instinct was to remove the offending creatures, and cleans the injury, but upon closer inspection, it became clear that the maggots had feasted upon the dead flesh most effectively_ _, leaving the undamaged flesh and bone wholly unmolested_ _…_

Dr.  Greenberg continued reading with rapt attention. 

 

_Five days later,_ _as if calling forth Lazarus from the tomb, the wound was_ _unwrapp_ _ed and_ _there was neither sign of infection, nor fever nor other illness_ _, or stench of death_ _…_

With a thud, Greenberg snapped the book shut.  His agile mind was racing with the thrill of a possible answer.  Could it be?  Was the answer for Kuryakin to be found not in the scientific laboratories of the future, but instead, culled from the memories of the past?  Many treatments used before the advent of modern medicine had long since gone by the wayside; and rightfully so, he believed, but automatically discounting  remedies merely because they had gone out of fashion could be the same as throwing the baby out with the bathwater. 

 

With a renewed energy and sense of purpose, he leapt up from his armchair and ran upstairs to his private study where he kept a small collection of medical texts and journals.   He picked up one journal and began quickly thumbing through the pages.  He didn’t find what he was looking for and quickly discarded it. He picked up another journal, and another, and yet one more.  “Maggots…maggots,” he muttered under his breath.  He was a man on a mission and he wouldn’t stop searching until he found the information he needed.

 

Then Greenberg made a key move that would prove crucial to his successful research quest when he expanded his search to include any articles on osteomyelitis.    Three journals later his diligence and his strategy were rewarded when his eyes alit upon an article detailing the use of blowflies, starting in 1929, to treat chronic oseomyletis.* Dr. Greenberg’s smile was one of utter triumph and none, save the unimpressed cat at his feet, were there to hear the low whoop of relief he let out. This was not medical evidence of an antidotal nature. This was no folklore passed down from Grandmothers. This was coveted evidenced-based practice with the hard science to back it up. 

 

Greenberg’s elation was short-lived though. He was already chaffing under the knowledge that at past 3:00 in the morning, there was absolutely nothing he could do at the moment to get his hands on some hygienic, lab-grown flies and the maggots they produced.  He paced and began to review in his mind any entomology and research labs where he could possibly acquire what he needed.  He didn’t personally know any entomologists, or labs where medical maggots were grown, but with U.N.C.L.E., he certainly had the resources to locate one or both.  

Dr. Greenberg went to his rolodex and started thumbing through the cards with the phone numbers written in his neat, precise handwriting, until he came to the listing for the various duty sections.  With a slight nod to himself, he selected the number for the Section IV: Intelligence and Communications duty agent.  A well-placed phone call in the middle of the night would make the search for what he needed in the morning, go as smoothly as possible. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, the deed was done.  He had relayed what he needed to the astonishment of the agent on duty. Once Dr. Greenberg was satisfied that the agent understood the priority of his request, he had hung the phone up, confident that his search would give him an advantageous head-start.  He had accomplished all he could in the overnight hours and Greenberg fully anticipated that before the end of the day, one Enforcement Agent Kuryakin’s leg would be incased in blowfly maggots, happily eating away at only the dead bone and tissue. 

 

At long last his body began to listen to the siren call for sleep and he gave a mighty yawn as he padded, with soft, silent steps, back to his bedroom.  He smiled with fondness at the sight of his sleeping bride, still beautiful to him after all these years.  Gladys had rolled on to his side of the bed and she’d wrapped one arm about his pillow as if snuggling with her husband to her side. 

 

He had just disrobed and was on the verge of getting under the covers when the shrill ringing of the phone stopped him dead in his tracks.

The call had to be from the infirmary.   All thoughts of finally getting into bed and getting some sleep vanished instantly from the good doctor’s mind.  

 

Duty called him and Greenberg went to answer. 

 

 

*******

 

The noise that first disturbed the sleep of Napoleon Solo was initially, a mere faint and pleasant audio tease that gently flittered around the peripheral edges of his consciousness.  Solo barely shifted in the depths his profound sleep had dragged him to until gradually, the sensation morphed into a loud, high-pitched, insistent ringing until Solo’s brain registered it as the phone in his living room.

 

The fog of sleep began to part and the sound of the phone’s ringing resounded loudly in his ears, separating Solo from his sleep until he was driven completely awake.  Solo swore and blinked his eyes until the  numbers on the slightly glowing face of his alarm clock coalesced into crisp, clean red numbers.   They read 5:00 AM. 

 

Solo sat upright suddenly.  _Illya!_   It had to be the infirmary calling about his partner. Immediately, Solo’s heart began to thud in his chest. He was temporarily off the duty roster so there would be no reason to call him about any urgent missions at this hour, unless the world was burning down around him.  A hard rush of adrenaline fueled his movements, propelling him out of his warm bed and out to the living room to where the phone was.  The infirmary was calling because something was wrong with Illya…had Illya died? Terror gripped Napoleon Solo then and for a moment that he would apologize for later, he wished it were indeed the world burning down, rather than news of Illya Kuryakin’s demise.

 

He snatched the receiver from the cradle. “Solo here,” he barked.

 

“Mr. Solo, it’s Peggy Stone,” the U.N.C.L.E. nurse said. 

 

The apologetic tone in the older woman’s voice did not escape Solo’s discernment.  “What’s wrong with Illya?” Solo demanded, even as the words, _he’s not dead, he’s not dead_ played an endless loop of denial in his head.

 

“Napoleon,” the nurse lowered her voice, as if not wanting to be overheard, “Mr. Kuryakin’s condition has….changed, and Dr. Young really thought it best that you not be disturbed – something about a deal made with Dr. Greenberg.”

 

Solo steeled himself.  “Changed? How do you mean?”

 

“Please, Napoleon, just come to the infirmary.  Now.” 

 

“What – ”  The sudden click of the receiver being put down hastily ricocheted loudly like a bullet in Solo’s brain.

 

For a split moment of paralysis, Solo stared at the receiver in his hand.  Then without thinking, he dashed to his closet and pulled out a pair of casual slacks and a sweater.  He lost no time in getting redressed, brushing his teeth and combing his hair. 

 

In no time flat, he was riding the elevator down from his penthouse suite, pacing impatiently until he was deposited in the lobby of his building before heading to his car in the garage. 

 

He hardly remembered the drive to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters and entering the quiet building through the after-hours egress, but here he was, bursting through the doors of the infirmary and in the process, startling an orderly who happened to be walking by. 

 

“Mr. Solo….!” a feminine voice called.

 

Napoleon ran right past the nurses’ station, and down the hall towards his partner’s room without acknowledging the hail from Nurse Peggy Stone.  Heart pounding, he burst through the door of Kuryakin’s room and stopped dead in his tracks.  Solo’s world spun off its axis and came to a sickening stop when his eyes took in the sight of the bed - empty of its occupant.  He very nearly crumbled to his knees.

 

He was hardly aware of Peggy Stone’s steady grip on his arm, turning him around with a gentle, but firm insistence.

 

“Napoleon, Illya has been moved to the critical care unit,” the older woman informed him.

 

Solo took a deep breath and centered himself.   Illya was alive.  The relief that flooded his system was almost as powerful enough a sensation to drive him to his knees as the overwhelming shock and grief he had briefly experienced.  “What happened?” he asked.

 

“Nurse Stone, what is all this commotion – ” the door to Illya’s former room was pushed open and in walked Dr. Greenberg. The U.N.C.L.E. doctor frowned at his nurse, but his eyes were on Solo as he asked the next question.  “Mr. Solo, what are you doing here?” 

 

“I think I’m here to see my partner who is now in the critical care unit. When last I saw Kuryakin, he was in _this_ room and in _that_ bed,” he gestured. “What happened?” a frustrated and worried Napoleon countered instead.

 

Dr. Greenberg flashed Peggy Stone an, “I’ll-talk-to-you-later” look.  Nurse Stone wisely took her leave of them both, but not before giving Solo’s arm a gentle squeeze.  Solo nodded gratefully in her direction, then turned his full attention to Dr. Greenberg.

 

“Come with me,” Dr. Greenberg said. Solo followed as the physician spun on his heels and walked out the door and down the hall to the critical care unit.

 

The U.N.C.L.E. critical care unit was a very different animal from a regular infirmary room. As much as the infirmary rooms could be called, ‘basic’, the critical care unit was sterile and downright Spartan in comparison.  The nurses’ station was small and strategically placed to allow for close monitoring of up to three patients.   There were open cubicles for the patients, rather than rooms which afforded some degree of privacy.   Solo couldn’t care less for any of it.  His mind barely registered the presence of Dr. Young in the cubicle. What absorbed all of his attention was the figure in the bed. Solo blinked, and as if from a great distance, he could feel his heart sinking in his chest. 

 

Illya Kuryakin might as well have been a wax mannequin for the unnaturally still manner in which he lay. His stillness was profound and Solo’s mind deliberately shied away from comparing him to a corpse.  Illya’s handsome features, with the high Slavic cheekbones, which Solo found so attractive, were obscured by the oxygen mask. What Solo could see of Illya’s face was pale. Even his blond hair, which usually moved in a natural, lustrous way, looked more like dried straw.   

 

Dr. Greenberg was speaking to him and he tore his gaze away from his partner to listen to what the doctor had to say.

 

Greenberg’s voice was low, and matter-of-fact. “Shortly after 3:00 AM I received a call from Dr. Young informing me that Mr. Kuryakin was now in a coma…” 

 

 Denial.

 

Like a child who wails in shocked disbelief after the accidentally loosed balloon ascends to the heavens, Napoleon wanted to scream out his denial as he listened to the U.N.C.L.E. doctor explain the latest news on Illya’s condition.  He held himself in check by the barest thread of restraint as the doctor’s words began to sound like meaningless jabber.

 

The doctor was standing directly in front of him, but Napoleon could no longer see him as he felt the fear and guilt rising up in him, threatening to get away from him.  _He_ was the one who had urged Illya to sleep.  Implicit in his promise was that if Illya would sleep it wouldn’t be for eternity; that Napoleon would be the one to watch Illya’s back, and that Illya would wake up again.

 

Solo fought to maintain control.  His mind replayed his last moments with Illya before he had gone home.  With his mind’s eye, he clearly saw himself at Illya’s bedside. He saw the proud Russian, a man who begged no man for anything, turn fearful eyes upon him.  Those eyes had communicated with an eloquence beyond speech his need for assurance that Napoleon would not allow him to slip away into the nothingness he believed awaited him.  And in his arrogance, Napoleon had done it. He’d instantly spoken over-confident words of promise of a restful sleep of which to wake as if he possessed the power to make it so by his word alone.

 

Napoleon tasted the bitterness of bile for having blindly allowed his ego to give Illya assurances beyond his power to give.  Just as the Russian had feared, he’d gone to sleep and was no in a coma from which he could not awaken.  Illya was far from him and Solo had no idea how to breach the gap and pull his partner back. 

 

Dr. Greenberg, as if sensing the U.N.C.L.E. CEA’s precarious hold on his emotions, grasped Napoleon’s shoulder gently. “Of course, I would have preferred that this not happen, but it’s not as bad as you think. Illya’s body is simply marshalling all its resources to focus on what’s imperative here. Think of it as a ‘time-out’ while we take care of some of his body’s functions.”

 

Napoleon took a deep breath and composed himself. “What can I do?”

 

A speculative look crossed Dr. Greenberg’s face. “There’s plenty of anecdotal evidence to support the theory that people in comas can sometimes perceive what is going on around them at the time, even whole conversations, but precious little scientific evidence.” Greenberg shrugged. “Talk to him.  Do what you have to do to get through this, Napoleon.  In the meantime, I think I have found a treatment that will work to reverse the infection, along with the antibiotics to give Mr. Kuryakin’s body the time it needs to heal.” 

 

TBC

 

*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several shout-outs are due for this chapter. First and foremost, I'd like to sincerely thank Yelizaveta52 for sharing this idea with me waaaay back in April of 2009. That's a long time to wait to see something come to pass and I'm fairly sure she will never know that it came to fruition just as I assured her it would.  
> Second, this chapter required a bit of research. The treatment is real and here is the source for where the information came from: https://web.stanford.edu/group/parasites/ParaSites2006/Myiasis/history.html  
> The book, Blue, Grey and Red: Voices from the Battlefield is not real. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Most definitely on the homestretch. I apologize in advance if it takes more than 7 days to post the next part.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh!
> 
> Thanks for your patience as I bring this story to an end.

Napoleon Solo barely registered the absence of Dr. Greenberg from the critical care unit where his partner lay, and he was too single-mindedly focused on getting to Illya to have noticed the preoccupied demeanor of the doctor to have questioned whether or not what was on Greenberg’s mind was anything but concern over his patient’s coma. The doctor’s swift departure left Solo alone in the doorway of Illya’s cubicle, staring at his eerily still form in the bed, until Solo’s feet, without conscious thought, brought him close to Illya’s bedside. 

Quietly, Solo took a seat in the grey metal arm chair with its worn padded seat. “Illya,” Solo murmured his partner’s name and he reached around the wires and tubes sprouting from everywhere to grasp the pale hand that lay upon the crisp, white sheets. Where are you? Unconscious and hooked up to medical equipment was not a place where one or the other of them had not been before, but neither one had actually ever been in a coma before. 

Was what Greenberg said true? If he spoke to his lover, would Illya know his voice? Solo wondered. Could Illya follow his command and bring himself out of whatever dark place he’d gone? Solo fervently hoped so. Guilt attacked him from all sides and irrational as his mind told him it was, he could not get past the fact that the last thing Illya had heard was Napoleon’s promise that Illya would sleep normally and then awaken. Solo tried to take solace in Greenberg’s characterization of Illya’s coma as a badly-needed “time-out”, but those words afforded Solo little comfort in light of the fact that Illya’s health had done nothing but steadily worsen since he’d been brought back from Washington D.C.. 

Napoleon spoke again, summoning forth his command voice while giving Kuryakin’s hand a firm squeeze: “Illya, Dr. Greenberg has a theory that you can hear what people are saying to you. I hope so, because if that’s the case then hear this: Wake up! We’ve got places to go and THRUSH-IES to rid the world of.” Napoleon paused and internally acknowledged the counter-productiveness of the regret he was feeling. Deep down inside he knew that Illya would never blame him for his current condition, but nonetheless, Napoleon wanted Illya to know that he was sorry for the reassurances that he had given him to induce him to sleep. 

He cleared his throat and fished around for what he wanted to say without sounding maudlin. “I’m sorry that this has happened. I know how worried you were about going to sleep. Me telling you to because I thought you would wake up just fine feels too much like…,” Solo chose his words carefully, “like I tricked you,” he said hoarsely. “You can tear me a new one later, if you want.” Solo’s slight sardonic smile was lost on the comatose Russian. “Please, just wake up.” In typical stubborn Illya Kuryakin style, the Russian did neither thing. In typical, stubborn, Napoleon Solo-style, the older man refused to leave Illya’s side or to cease talking to him. 

It didn’t matter to Solo that there was virtually no privacy in the critical care unit. There was always at least one nurse present at her station close by and whose job it was to monitor any change in Illya’s status. For the most part, Napoleon ignored her constant presence. As for Dr. Greenberg, the man’s regular appearances were too brief for Solo to take much notice of, with the exception of one time in particular. After Dr. Greenberg had checked Illya’s vital signs against the record made by the nurses, he had, in an unusual display of physical contact, placed a reassuring hand upon Napoleon Solo’s shoulder and made a cryptic remark about Miss Dancer’s skills as a medical courier. 

It was such an odd comment for the physician to make that Solo’s immediate response was, “What?” For the first time since he had taken a seat by Illya’s bedside, Napoleon turned his attention away from his partner to someone else. Solo’s quick perusal of the doctor told him many things: one; that the doctor was running short on sleep, and two; he knew something and was holding it close to the vest. 

Solo observed Greenberg’s demeanor. The normally calm man looked curiously impatient – stressed even, with anticipation of something that Solo could not discern. Did it involve Illya?

“There’s something I need from a lab in California that just may help your partner and it isn’t exactly a mission a Section Two agent would be assigned. Fortunately for all of us, Alexander saw fit to cut through the red tape and dispatch your friend, Miss Dancer to go and bring it in the most expeditious manner possible,” Greenberg confirmed. 

Was that hope Solo felt stirring? His tired mind naturally assumed that Greenberg was referring to some newly formulated drug that he sought to administer to Illya. His response was a cautious: “It’s going to take a long time to fly to California and back.”

“I hear the Old Man’s private plane is pretty sleek,” was Greenberg’s ambiguous reply before departing the cubicle. Solo wanted to grab Dr. Greenberg and shake a more thorough answer from the man, but he refrained. He was again left to his bedside vigil and the sight alone of his partner lying venerable and still was enough to quickly put all other thoughts far from his mind. Hour after hour, Solo kept up a never-ending, one-sided conversation until the early morning hours whiled away into late morning, and Solo’s voice grew hoarse from his monologue. Solo couldn’t take his eyes away from the view of his partner’s chest barely rising and falling with each exchange of air, or the fever-ravaged face that appeared so waxen and still as an unanimated mannequin’s. It was so opposite of the exquisitely composed visage and mercurial, brilliant sapphires for eyes that Napoleon loved so much. Solo hated seeing Illya in this condition, but if his partner could hear his voice and derive comfort from it, then Napoleon could and would talk for as long as it took. 

And talk he did as the morning slid away and into the afternoon and ever so slowly, the afternoon faded into the evening hours. This time, no one came around to order Napoleon away from Illya’s side, ostensibly for Solo’s own good. On the other hand, Solo required neither bribe nor strong-arm tactics to take the necessary care of his own body’s needs. When he hungered, he left the infirmary and went down to the commissary to seek out real food. When he needed to escape the confines of the cubicle to stretch his legs, he walked the familiar halls of U.N.C.L.E. and politely returned the greetings extended to whomever he encountered. His appearance in the commissary was deliberately made after the regular lunch time hours so as to avoid having to interact with his fellow Section Two Agents. 

He was not entirely successful. 

 

*******

It was mid-afternoon and Dr. Greenberg, engrossed in a book, did not hear the sound of footsteps as the person to whom they belonged, walked right into his office. From the doctor's perspective, he had not given permission for entrance and none had been asked. He was taken aback by the perceived lack of curtesy and he spoke without having torn his gaze away from the fascinating book. “Well, by all means, come in and have a seat,” he said somewhat sarcastically. Greenberg looked up then and his annoyance immediately faded to surprise as he beheld his visitor. 

It was Alistair McKinney. The staid man wore his usual immaculate and meticulously pressed pin striped suit and trademark bow tie. 

McKinney, looking nonplussed, did exactly that. “I knocked. Twice,” the lawyer said mildly. McKinney read the upside down title of the book the physician had stopped reading and placed on his desk: Lucilia Sericata. “That must be fascinating,” he observed with a subtle upturn of his lip, suggestive of disgust. 

“It is at the moment,” Dr. Greenberg agreed. “What can I do for you, Alistair?”

“Since the mountain won't come to Muhammad, then Muhammed must go to the mountain,” McKinney stated. McKinney sighed when all he received was a blank stare from the good doctor. “You were supposed to call me with information on getting definitive proof that the late Dr. Phoenix did indeed suffer from a congenital spine disease. Is there a good reason why I haven’t heard from you?”

“Oh,” Dr. Greenberg groaned. His memory of their conversation returned in complete clarity. “You’re right. I do apologize. Alistair. I do have some information for you, but unfortunately, I also have a good reason for my failure to contact you as my duties have kept me unusually busy these last 72 hours.”

McKinney’s sharp, grey eyes were taking in the U.N.C.L.E doctor and his eyes narrowed. “Is it Mr. Solo’s partner?” 

“Yes. Good guess,” Greenberg said succinctly. “Mr. Kuryakin has decided to keep things interesting by lapsing into a coma, among other things.”

Enlightened, McKinney responded, “I see. That also explains why my attempts to contact Mr. Solo have been unsuccessful.” He paused for a moment to remove a small notepad and pen from his jacket inner pocket. “I’m sure you are doing all you can, but seeing that legal work is my forte and not the world of medicine, what can you tell me regarding the possible identity of the late Dr. Phoenix's physician?” 

“Well… I think I have a name for you.” Dr. Greenberg rose from behind his desk and went to his briefcase where he withdrew what appeared to be a printed program. He handed the folded paper over to Mr. McKinney who took it and stared at it curiously while Greenberg resumed his seat. 

“That, Alistair, is an old program from a 1964 medical convention held right here in New York City. It wasn’t just any medical convention, though, it was a gathering for the North American Spine Society. That program contains the list of attendees, their credentials and where they currently practice. As you recall, Dr. Phoenix lived in Fairfax, Virginia. Now, I’d like to direct your attention to column three about a quarters of a way down from the top.” 

McKinney’s sharp eyes skimmed down until he came to the name of a doctor by the name of Bernard Krischek and the information about him.  
“Dr. Bernard Krischek, noted spine researcher and specialist in the areas of cervical spine disorders, complex spinal disorders, degenerative disc disease, and degenerative spinal conditions.” And the lawyer stopped reading aloud when he came to the doctor’s location of practice: Fairfax, Virginia. “Fairfax, Virginia. Interesting, but what makes you think he’s the only one with those credentials practicing in Fairfax? How do you even know that Phoenix saw a doctor in Fairfax?”

Greenberg gave McKinney a calculating look. “He’s not and I don’t,” he answered. 

McKinney frowned, “Then I’m afraid you’ve wasted my time.”

Greenberg held up a hand. “I don’t think so and I have my reasons for saying that.” 

“Go on.”

“First of all, Dr. Phoenix was a scientist. As unethical as his work was, it was complex, advanced and fascinating. I think a man like that would have a high regard for someone who wasn’t just a doctor, but a sound research professional as well. I think that bias would drive him to choose a physician who has the credentials as Krischek over one who doesn’t. Also, a man like Phoenix wouldn’t want to leave his experiments for hours at a time to travel far for treatments. I had someone compile the names of all the spine specialists with offices within 50 miles of where Dr. Phoenix lived and the only one who fits the bill of being a spine specialist, a researcher involved in cutting edge research, and one whose practice is located less than 15 miles away from the Phoenix residence is Dr. Krischek.” 

McKinney looked thoughtful as he turned over Dr. Greenberg’s analysis in his mind, then he crossed one leg over the other and briefly considered the buff shine of the fingernails of one hand. “According to everything U.N.C.L.E. seized from the Phoenix residence, that old mad scientist wasn’t always involved in experiments. There were a few years, in fact, where he wasn’t involved in any major experiments at all.”

“True.” The corner of Greenberg’s lips turned up slightly. “All work and no play…” he left off with the saying and seemed to jump track mid-sentence. “Did you know that Dr. Krischek regularly has a par of 72 at the Exeter Fairfax golf course?”

Taken aback, McKinney drummed his fingers on one leg. “And I care about that because…?”

“Guess who else likes to play golf practically every other day at the Exeter?”

McKinney uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. He grinned a shark-like expression. “Dr. Krischek.”

Greenberg gave a casual nod of agreement. "Got it in one."

McKinney got to his feet and he was half way to the door when he heard Dr. Greenberg call out, “Wait, Alistair. You can’t just go over to the man’s home and demand to know if he treated Phoenix for spondylolisthesis.”

McKinney turned around and an offended expression crossed his features for a split second before vanishing. “I have no intention of doing that, Alan.”

“Good,” Greenberg approved. McKinney was now at the door, ready to step through. “So where are you going?” This time, McKinney stopped in the doorway and turned around to answer:

“To play a round of golf.” 

*******

Upstairs in the U.N.C.L.E cafeteria, Solo was eating a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich he had purchased from the commissary when Mandy Stevenson, accompanied by two junior Section Two colleagues, approached the table that Solo has specifically selected for its low-key, back corner location. Solo had not spoken to Mandy since the day the Portuguese language analyst had shared a meal of homemade empanadas with him while he’d been in the middle of his Inquest. Mandy’s face bore the same caring expression it had on that day. Her thick black-framed glasses made her eyes look wide with concern. “Napoleon,” Mandy greeted Solo warmly.

“Hello, Mandy,” Solo replied with polite courtesy to a woman he genuinely liked and respected, even though he just wanted to be alone. He nodded his head towards the junior two agents, whom Solo recognized as both having solid reputations as good men and agents. “Steven. Bobby,” he greeted. 

“Good afternoon, Napoleon,” Steven returned on behalf of both men.

“We don’t mean to bother you,” Mandy sounded eager to explain as if she recognized the mood of Napoleon Solo. “We just wanted to ask about Illya. I mean…we heard that he’s very ill. Is there anything either you or he needs?”

“I appreciate that, but no, there’s nothing,” Napoleon said.

Mandy’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been here all day, haven’t you?”

“It’s only been a few hours,” Napoleon corrected. But if feels like forever. 

“Is it alright if I come by and visit with Illya?” Mandy asked. 

“I’m sorry Mandy, but you can’t.” Mandy’s face fell. Solo paused, loathed to say the words aloud. “Illya’s in a coma which means he’s in the critical care unit. I’m it as far as visitors go,” he explained grimly.

Solo’s company looked genuinely saddened to hear the news and Mandy let out a soft gasp. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the agent named Bobby said, sounding sincere. “We don’t know Kuryakin all that well because he’s…,” the junior agent’s boyish face suddenly flushed. “Well, he’s your partner, you know how he is. But he’s someone I admire very much. Aside from you, Mr. Solo, he’s the best enforcement agent I know.” 

Steven nodded his head in affirmation. “I agree. Would you please give him our regards and tell him to get well soon?”

Solo fought down an unexpected lump in his throat that threatened to rise. These men had taken the time to express good wishes for Illya’s health. The quiet and enigmatic Russian had initially faced an uphill battle in being accepted as an U.N.C.L.E. agent because of his nationality and his cold and distant outward persona. Even now, years later, while Illya was largely accepted by his fellow Section Two agents, he was still not well known, save by professional reputation. It was true that Illya, by his nature was quiet and solitary, as a result, he had almost no personal, outside relationships with Section Two agents, with the exception of Mark Slate and April Dancer. Additionally, there were still a few die-hard haters of anything affiliated with the Soviet Union. They remained suspicious of Illya and made little effort to hide the way they felt. 

In coming to the commissary, Solo’s one goal was to get some food, consume it quickly while avoiding any interaction. He genuinely hadn’t wanted the small group of people to approach, but now he was glad they had. 

“We can see you want to be alone, Napoleon, so we’ll leave you to it,” Mandy said softly, her effervescent personality temporarily muted by Solo’s report of his partner’s condition. “Mr. Kuryakin is going to pull through this and when he’s better, we’ll all come for a short visit, okay?” Mandy gave Solo a sisterly kiss on his cheek without waiting for a response. 

“Thank you, Mandy,” Solo said softly, for her ears only. Solo graced the group as a whole with an appreciative expression. “That’s really swell of you all, and I mean that.” That concluded the little exchange and when the group departed, Solo made short work of finishing up his soup and sandwich and then he got ready to head back to the infirmary. 

Against his better judgement, Solo allowed himself a brief moment of fantasy. He saw himself walking down the hall to the critical care unit and into the cubicle that belonged to his partner. In Solo’s mind’s eye he saw himself walking in and finding his partner no longer lying still as a corpse, but instead, sitting up in bed. Kuryakin’s eyes would be sparkling once again and a sarcastic, humorous comment aimed at Napoleon, would come out of his mouth and land with pin point precision. 

That mouth. That gorgeous mouth of Kuryakin’s with the full, pouty bottom lip…

Napoleon would stride right into that cubicle and kiss that infuriating Russian right on his sensual lips, until his mouth opened to permit the slow and deep kiss Solo longed to bestow.

But then reality hit once he arrived outside of Kuryakin’s cubicle. He hesitated before going in as his eyes beheld his partner. No miracle had occurred during his absence. Absolutely nothing had changed for Illya who lay just as unmoving as before, with the same number of lines and tubes snaking in and out of his fevered body. 

Solo shook off his disappointment and resettled himself back into the hard chair to take up his vigil with conversation and reading aloud. 

Hour after hour passed and when next Solo thought to take a break, the afternoon had come and gone and the evening was in full swing. By then, Dr. Greenberg had conducted another round of checking Illya, and Solo had no trouble discerning that the doctor seemed to be simultaneously brimming with both impatience and excitement. Solo’s curiosity was piqued. “Is it April? Has she returned?” 

Dr. Greenberg glanced at his watch – an action he had performed at least three times during this most recent visit - “Not yet,” was the short answer. When Solo pressed him for details as to what time exactly Dancer had left on Waverly’s plane, all the doctor could say was that Mr. Waverly had summoned Miss Dancer to his office at 8:00 AM. 

Solo shrugged. Precisely what time the flight had taken off was an easy enough piece of information for Napoleon to find out. Whatever time his friend had gotten on that plane, the one thing he knew for sure, was that she wouldn’t be returning for at least another 14 hours after departure. It would be a long, weary trip for anyone, almost as long and weary as his fight to bring Illya out of his coma. 

Solo sighed and contemplated the bit of recent good news in this whole ordeal: Illya’s condition had not worsened. The Russian remained in a coma, but the tachycardia and fever, though still present, had not increased. Solo would take what he could get and someday he would treat April Dancer to the most expensive restaurant or show in town as a way of thanking her for what she had done to bring the medicine that would save Illya’s life. 

Solo rose from his chair and stretched his legs for moment. The evening hours seemed reluctant to pass, but pass they did. The seven o’clock hour changed to the eight o’clock hour, then the eight had become the nine when Solo was found dozing at the edge of Illya’s bed. The next time he fully awakened, the ninth hour had seemingly skipped an hour and gone straight to 11:00 PM. 

Sometime during the monotonous hours, there had been a shift change of medical personnel and the vast majority of agents and employees of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters had long ago gone home, leaving the building a much quieter place. Solo’s nap at the bedside of his partner had been brief but deep, and at some point, in a dream-like state, he thought he heard muted voices belonging to Mr. Waverly and Dr. Greenberg. He supposed it would be an act of common curtesy and respect to wake up and acknowledge his boss’s presence, but his weariness was too great. Solo’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy and lifting them was beyond his strength. Solo vaguely wondered if having the desire to open one’s eyes, but not having the strength to do it was how Illya was feeling in his coma. 

Napoleon eyed his watch with some amount of trepidation. At 11:30 PM, with Illya relatively stable, the inevitable time that Solo would be allowed to remain at Illya’s side ran out. The next time Dr. Greenberg appeared in Illya’s cubicle, Solo knew it was for more of a purpose than to check on his patient. Solo’s guess proved correct - Dr. Greenberg had come to kick him out of the infirmary. 

“Come back in the morning,” Greenberg urged. 

Solo stretched his cramped neck, moving it first to one side, and then the other. He looked first at Illya’s still face, and then Dr. Greenberg’s, and Solo imagined that if his own face looked half as weary as the doctor’s, he must look sorry indeed. As reluctant as he was to leave the infirmary, Solo could appreciate how good his own bed would feel in comparison to the grey, metal chair he’d been in all day. In contrast, Solo knew that Dr. Greenberg would not be going home to sleep in his own bed. Any time the critical care unit was occupied with patients, Dr. Greenberg remained in the clinic. The doctor had a cot, sink, towels and toiletries in a small room located just off of his office. 

“Thank you for staying with him, doctor,” Napoleon said sincerely. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Dr. Greenberg’s face registered surprise as if he had already lined up which acts of bribery he would offer Solo as inducements to leave. The doctor covered it quickly with a simple promise to call Solo if anything should change. 

“If April should arrive, before I get back, please call,” Solo entreated. 

Having secured Dr. Greenberg’s word, Napoleon stood by the bedside of Illya Kuryakin and wished his partner a good night. How he longed to reach out and comb his fingers through the blond locks and lay his face next to the pale, high-sculpted cheek bones, but it was an impossibility in a place with no privacy. Instead, the best Solo could do was to speak the words of promise to return and give the hand a gentle squeeze meant to impart comfort. 

Then he was gone. 

 

*******

 

At 2:00 AM, April Dancer strode through the halls of a very quiet U.N.C.L.E. HQ, carrying a mysterious container marked with the words, ‘Biomedical’. The agent had no idea precisely what was in the container, she only knew that she had been summoned to Mr. Waverly’s office early the previous morning and told that there was an urgent need for someone to fly out to Monarch Medical Laboratory, located in Irvine, California and bring back a medicine of critical importance to Illya Kuryakin. Naturally, she had at once gladly assumed responsibility for the mission, which she understood, was technically not a sanctioned Section Two mission at all. It made it all the more meaningful to her because one; Illya Kuryakin was her friend, and two; the Old Man, who was well known for his hard philosophy that enforcement agents were expendable, apparently was perfectly willing to suspend that belief when faced with the prospect of losing an agent to a broken leg, while that agent was right under his own nose. 

Thus she had flown to California and back with no clue as to the contents of the mysterious box. She had been briefed on the proper handling precautions and given a sealed envelope to be handed over to Dr. Greenberg without delay. After hours in the air, rides in cabs, and more hours in the air, she had finally reached the doors to the infirmary. 

The nurse on duty was the first to see April. “Can I help you, Miss Dancer?” the nurse asked. April smiled pleasantly. “Can you wake up Dr. Greenberg and let him know that I’m here with the medicine?”

“Of course.” The young woman hurried off to wake Dr. Greenberg and while April waited, she looked in the direction of the critical care unit, wondering if she would be allow to check on her friend. She wasn’t left wondering for long. April heard steps coming around the corner and a bleary-eyed, but excited looking Dr. Greenberg, with the nurse trailing behind, came in view. 

“Miss Dancer, thank you so much. Did everything go okay?” 

“Yes, it went well - and anything for Illya. Here’s the medicine.” April handed the container over to the physician who eagerly took it. April stared at the container curiously hoping to learn more about the contents. It had struck her from the moment she had received it, that there was something odd about it, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. She shrugged tiredly. “I truly hope this is what Illya needs to recover.” 

“I do too,” Alan Greenberg replied. “Why don’t you go home now and get some rest.”

“I would love to get home and do just that. Uh…would you mind if I just looked in on Illya first?” Dancer asked hopefully.

“Of course not. Just don’t stay longer than five minutes, okay?”

“Thank you,” April responded. She walked off in the direction of the critical care unit, steeling herself to see her friend in a condition she never wanted to see any friend of hers in. 

*******

April Dancer had returned to her apartment showered, and crawled into her bed. Exactly four hours later Solo was rising from his own bed, showering, dressing, and leaving his apartment to return to the infirmary. There had been no early morning phone call which left him feeling conflicted. A phone call could have been good news that Illya was no longer in a coma. On the other hand, it could have been bearing news of Illya’s death. As it was, the only conclusion Solo could draw from the lack of any phone call was that Illya’s condition remained the same, meaning his partner had gone to sleep, slipped into a coma, and was still in one. 

An hour and 15 minutes later, Napoleon Solo was back at his partner’s bedside. With the news of Dancer’s successful return, he should have been feeling optimistic. Solo assumed with the administering of the medicine that he should have been seeing signs of Illya’s return to consciousness. Unfortunately, neither were the case. 

The first person Napoleon had run into when he had arrived at the infirmary had been Lavinia Richardson. From the Jamaican-born nurse he’d learned that April Dancer had safely returned from California. Solo had been relieved to hear that and his initial thought had been that the mystery medicine would have already been administered. Solo had also thought that if Illya could indeed hear him, then surely the news of this latest development, along with the medicine, would be a force sufficient to raise Illya from his coma. 

Solo’s optimism had taken a serious hit the moment he stepped into Illya’s cubicle. If anything, Illya looked worse than he had yesterday. For a minute, Solo was in a near panic because Illya looked for all intents and purposes like a dead man. Solo went to his partner’s side and took up again the beloved hand in his own. For a moment, Solo’s mouth was completely dry and he couldn’t get his mouth to work until he had taken one long drink of cool water and admonished himself to get to work supporting his partner. 

Just as Napoleon had passed the day yesterday, so did he begin today, starting up an endless stream of conversation of topics he has not yet exhausted. He had already been sitting for two hours by Illya’s bedside, with no change, when Lavinia Richardson had come in to care for her patient. The nurse’s expressive face communicated worry and displeasure with each vital sign she recorded, and as Solo watched her work, a feeling of dread resurrected itself again. “He’s going to get better now, right? For God’s sake, Mr. Waverly sent April Dancer on his personal plane all the way to California to get some kind of new medicine.”

Nurse Richardson looked away. “I’m sure if anyone has a chance, he does,” she answered carefully. 

Dread began to turn to fear in Solo’s gut. “Where is Dr. Greenberg?” he demanded, his voice low and surprisingly steady.

“The doctor is sleeping in his office. Dr. Young is technically on duty now and he’ll be in in about,” Richardson glanced at her watch, “Twenty minutes.” 

“What about the new medicine? Isn’t it working?” Solo hated the tinge of desperation creeping into his voice. 

Nurse Richardson was looking at him with compassion in her warm brown eyes. “Keep talking to him, Napoleon. There are no instant cures. The penicillin isn’t and neither is this treatment.” Richardson continued with her duties and when she was finished, she started to leave the cubicle, but before she left she addressed Solo again. “I’m going to bring you some hot tea with honey. I want you to drink all of it, all right?” 

Napoleon’s smile was a tight one, but he yielded to the wisdom offered. He had no other choice, really. Illya needed him today just as much as he’d needed him yesterday. With steely resolve, Napoleon set about the business of trying to reach Illya with another round of non-stop conversation.

Another day of hour after hour sitting by the bedside of his comatose partner. Finally, when Napoleon had seemingly run out of words to plead, cajole and bargain his partner back to consciousness, the first inklings of anger, birthed from fear of an end to Illya’s coma much darker and permanent began to torment Solo’s mind. The very thought of Illya dying now, when they had come so far to declare their love for one another, frightened Napoleon more than he would have ever imagined possible. 

Napoleon could easily recall the time of existence before Illya had come into his life. Then he would have sincerely said he was content in his romantic life. Were he the boasting kind, he could have bragged that many a man would have been envious of his life of abundant, exciting, beautiful, female sexual conquests. But in the privacy of his heart, if he sometimes longed for something more, Solo had told himself that at least his robust sex life fit in with the lifestyle of his dangerous, unpredictable profession. He had not really thought about it, but his philosophy had been that if sex with beautiful women and little emotional attachment to entangle him were the best life had for him, then he would enjoy it and use it to fill the empty place in his heart meant to be given to another. 

Solo had lost his virginity to an older woman at the age of 17, and from then on he had loved women with passion and gusto. He had been initiated into an adult game of male and female interaction and become a sophisticated master at knowing the rules and when and how to break them to his will without compromising his personal code of honor. He had always enjoyed the pursuit of female companionship and the ultimate prize won in the giving and receiving of sexual pleasure. But while he had given his body and enjoyed the physical exchange, he had been in denial about the emptiness in his soul growing little by little, one solitary year at a time.

And then along came lllya Kuraykin. 

Beautiful, deadly, intellectually brilliant and very male Illya could not be compared to any woman Napoleon had ever known. No soft, brown doe-eyes had the power to pull Napoleon’s heart down into deep depths the way Illya’s ice-blue eyes could. In the deepest years of Napoleon’s delusion he had pretended not to notice that somewhere along the way, his partner, Illya had developed romantic feelings for him. Instead, Napoleon had intensified his pursuit of female sexual conquests, going from one woman to another, never sharing his soul, never imparting his heart, unaware that the love of his life had been standing by his side all along until the day when it appeared as though Illya had died an agonizing death in a dark pit, and Napoleon had lost him forever. 

How cruel life was to reveal the truth to Napoleon and make him embrace such a radical love with all the intensity and desire that burned in his soul. He thought he understood the reasons why he had denied Illya’s love for him, and they were obvious: he was a male who had never even contemplated a sexual relationship with another male. Although he knew of men who did have male lovers, it was still illegal in many places and certainly within the U.N.C.L.E. organization, such things were not acceptable. Solo did care about those things. He had no desire to throw away the career he had fought so hard for and he certainly did not relish being made a social pariah should they be found out. However, with the wisdom of hindsight, Solo could finally admit that his refusal to return Illya’s love had come, most of all, from a sense of utter terror at just how empty his life would be should Illya’s love be taken from him. 

Napoleon was clinging with both hands and both feet to Dr. Greenberg’s reassurances. But what if it wasn’t some kind of time out? A small, insidious voice whispered more insistently as time wore on. After all, Napoleon had stood by and watched as Illya’s initial recovery from a simple broken leg had been hijacked by an aggressive bacteria, then seizures and now this. Concern had turned to fear, and that fear was rapidly morphing into an anger that was hot and irrational the longer he sat by his comatose partner’s bedside. How dare he do this? Like a wounded animal, the anger demanded to be let loose. “Illya, you’ve got to stop this nonsense now and wake up!” Napoleon demanded angrily as he leaned forward and gave Illya’s lax hand a tight squeeze. 

Nurse Richardson heard Solo from her station just outside of the cubicle and looked with concern at Napoleon, but said nothing. Solo ignored her watchful presence as he waited for the anger churning deep within to subside. 

Thankfully, it did. Wearily, Napoleon folded his arm on top of Illya’s bed and he lay his head down for a moment of rest. The anger drained from Solo and with sudden clarity, he realized how his anger had been misdirected. Fear was the real emotion, not anger and he never should have directed it at Illya because he knew as sure as he knew his own name that Illya was fighting as hard as he could, not to leave Napoleon, but to come back from a dark place. 

Napoleon sighed and sat back up again. He was appalled at having misdirected his anger towards his partner and he felt sick from having felt so deeply fearful and out of control. For a moment he buried his head in one hand wearily, without letting go of Illya’s hand with the other. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Illyusha,” he repeated softly. “If you need this time to gather your strength, then you do it. I understand. I’ll be here either way.”

Napoleon fell silent, sitting quietly and fighting against a sea of churning emotions. So occupied was he in regaining control over his negative thoughts and emotions, that he almost missed the first sign of a miraculous breakthrough for which he was he was furiously fighting for.

Almost. 

Illya’s cold hand, which was cocooned within his own warm one, twitched once, twice, then a third time. Solo’s heart began to pound in his chest. His head snapped up and his eyes locked on to the most beautiful of sights: Illya’s eyes which had been closed were now half-open slits of unfocused cerulean blue. “Illya!” Solo gasped in shock. 

TBC


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any an all who read this, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
> 
> I wish to share this final note as a way to announce that after TEN long years, this story is now complete. It has been a tremendous honor and joy to have been allowed into an old, established fandom such as MFU and contribute something that has meant so much to me, and been a self-motivator and comfort during some very difficult personal years. I am both satisfied and saddened to think that I kept my long-standing promise - first to my readers, but more even more importantly, to myself to finish the story that my muses gave to me. Sadly, not all who started the journey with me, are on this earthly plane to read it now. I honor the memory of their abiding friendship. There are other people who had crucial roles in the writing of this fic. There are not enough words to thank each and every beta who had a hand in this fic. I also solicited the assistance of real medical personal - including doctors in the crafting of this fic. My deepest appreciation to all of my medical betas. Thank you to the group of readers who gifted me with friendship, and timely notes of encouragement. It does not matter if the friendship was a temporary gift or an enduring one. At the time, they were given and freely and received with joy. I hope if there are those who were there in the early days, you find this fic again, read it and enjoy it. To those who thought. "yeah, she'll never finish this fic" now you see that ultimately, fandom creations, belong to the creator. It does not matter if it's 10 days, 10 months, or 10 years - if an author believes in their own story, they WILL finish it because true art demands it.  
> Lastly, my time in fandom is winding down as I move on to other things, but there is yet one more unfinished novel-length fic that I will turn my attention to. If there are any Magnificent Seven fans here, "Stung" will resume in 2017. Peace to all in 2017.

Solo rose from his chair, his breath held fast as he placed his face inches away from the beloved countenance.  His heart was racing in his chest.  Was Illya truly coming back or was this some cruel prelude to another frightening seizure? His world narrowed and his heart clenched as both his future and Illya’s fate hung precariously in the balance.  Without realizing what he was doing, Solo began stroking one hand tenderly alongside Illya’s face which was sporting the barest hints of stubble, discernible to Napoleon’s touch. “Wake up, Illya,” Solo continued to encourage in a low and urgent voice. For a torturous time, it seemed as though time stood still while Napoleon waited tensely to see what the Russian would do.  In reality, it was less than 30 seconds before the Russian’s eyelids began slowly fluttering like lazy butterflies trying to take flight.  

 

At the sight, the tension Solo was so keenly feeling suddenly began to dissipate and he could feel a wide grin breaking out over his face.  He didn’t bother trying to retain the smile that showed his white teeth. “C’mon Illya, you can do this.  Wake up!” he urged, but Illya’s face neither changed expression, nor did his eyes open further.  The hope, desperation and fear Napoleon was feeling coalesced into a single jumbled ball of emotion ricocheting around his heart to block out anything else but that man in the bed.  He did not even register the sudden presence of Nurse Richardson at the other side of the bed. “Mr. Kuryakin, can you hear me?” the nurse asked.  She grasped Illya’s wrist and took his pulse, then she began to call his name and tap Illya’s face with a gentle but deliberate hand.  

 

Solo did his best to stay out of Nurse Richardson’s way.  He had no desire to be dismissed from his partner’s bedside and so Solo contented himself with giving Illya’s hand, no longer completely lax and lifeless, a squeeze while watching the pale face.  To Solo’s disappointment, Illya's lips did not move to form a familiar, witty quip that would have been like welcomed music to Solo's ears.  Neither did Kuryakin sit up in bed and demand to know why he could not have 'rested' at home. 

 

“Okay. Okay, you aren’t quite ready to come back,” Solo muttered under his breath. Then aloud, he said, “Illya, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”  Illya’s hand which Solo had just felt move, remained still - until Napoleon both saw and felt the hand, that beautiful, beautiful hand give back a gentle, deliberate squeeze.  Wave after wave of relief flooded through Solo’s system and he knew he must be grinning like a fool, from ear to ear.   Solo closed his eyes to form a tight barrier against tears he knew, must not fall.

 

“Napoleon, please go and get Dr. Young, will you?”  Lavinia Richardson asked.

 

“What?”  Napoleon’s eyes snapped open.  His preoccupied attention had only caught the words, ‘Napoleon, go’.  _I’m not going anywhere._  

 

“Dr. Young”, Nurse Richardson repeated patiently, as if speaking to a slow-witted child.  “Could you please go and fetch him?”

 

Napoleon’s profound sense of relief overpowered whatever embarrassment he would normally have felt over his apparent failure to comprehend.   The corner of his mouth lifted.  “Oh.  Yes, of course.”  Solo replied, though he had yet to relinquish his hold on Illya’s hand, nor did he move to rise from his chair.   

 

Nurse Richardson ceased her ministrations long enough to give Napoleon an encouraging, knowing smile.

 

The response was instantaneous.  Solo schooled his features to a more neutral expression, while inside he was blushing furiously. He was keenly aware that these last days he’d practically broadcasted his true feelings about Illya to the world.  If he continued to carry on this way in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary it would not be long before Napoleon’s romantic love for his partner would move from facetious rumor to confirmed fact.  Gently, Solo let go of Illya’s hand and squeezed his partner’s shoulder.  Then he leaned over and whispered words for Illya’s ear alone. “I’ll be right back, my love.  I’m just going to get Dr. Young. You just keep fighting to wake up.” Reluctantly, Solo rose to his feet, his eyes locked on the pale face that remained still except for the eyes that his partner was fighting so hard to open.   Solo held his breath and a moment later he was rewarded by the sight of two eyes of ice-blue looking at him with exhausted confusion.

 

Solo felt the smile breaking out on his face and later, if anyone had asked him how he managed to tear himself away from Illya’s side in order to get Dr. Young, he could not have answered.

 

*******

 

**“** Dr. Young, come with me.  It’s Illya; he’s waking up!” Solo fairly pounced on the doctor when he found the physician stitching up a deep-looking cut on the forehead of an U.N.C.L.E. employee.   A nurse stood next to Dr. Young, dutifully holding a tray with supplies with which to tend the wounded agent. 

 

At hearing Solo’s pronouncement, the young doctor finished another  neat, precise stich before handing the needle over to the nurse and washing his hands.  “Sally, would you finish this up, please?”

 

Nodding her head, the nurse placed the tray down and took up the needle while Dr. Young and Solo quickly walked out in the direction of the critical care unit.

 

Solo couldn’t get there fast enough. An irrational part of his brain told him that in the short time in which he had left to get Dr. Young, Illya would have lapsed back into a coma.  The two men entered the cubicle and Solo’s heart dropped with sick despair when he saw his partner lying still in the bed.  Rather than the Russian looking about with open, tired eyes, the blues of the Russian’s eyes were shuttered by pale, delicately-veined lids.   _Illya!_ Solo swallowed convulsively and stopped in his tracks, fearing the worst. 

 

Dr. Young, oblivious to Solo’s silent distress, made his way to Illya’s bedside and began to examine the Russian.  The ever perceptive, Nurse Richardson _did_ observe and correctly interpret the enforcement agent’s expression.  “Don’t panic, Mr. Solo.  I don’t think anything has changed since you went to fetch the doctor,” she said soothingly. 

 

As if to validate Nurse Richardson’s assurance, Kuryakin moaned softly in response to a painful stimuli Dr. Young applied to Illya’s arm, though the Russian did not pull his limb away.  Slowly, Illya’s eyes opened again.   Solo felt a slight lessening of tension through the escaped barest sigh of relief.  His partner was in there, fighting to come to full wakefulness and just as he had before, Napoleon vowed that he would be right there waiting and encouraging the younger man.

 

Dr. Young continued with his examination of his patient by issuing commands for Illya to track the doctor’s finger, held in front of Kuryakin’s  eyes.  This, the Russian managed to accomplish with great difficulty before his eyes slid shut and did not reopen.  “Illya. Illya Kuryakin, can you open your eyes again?” Dr. Young asked.  When there was no further response, the doctor straightened.  “Nurse Richardson, what are his latest oxygen saturation levels?”

 

Richardson read them off in low voice and Solo watched, anticipating the doctor’s pronouncement. 

 

The doctor’s expression was impassive.  He nodded his head once and made some annotations on Illya’s chart before turning to address Napoleon. 

 

 “Let’s talk outside,” the doctor invited.

 

Outside the confines of Illya’s small cubicle, Napoleon awaited the good news that Illya was officially out of the coma and on his way to improved health. 

 

Much to Solo’s dismay, it was a mixed report that Dr. Young delivered.  “There is good news, Mr. Solo. As you see, Mr. Kuryakin is coming out of the coma.  We won’t know for sure, of course, until our test confirm this, but I think it’s safe to say that he’s beaten the toxic-metabolic encephalopathy. I know you’re anxious for him to be fully awake, but be patient. Coming out of the coma may still be a gradual, but steady process, and I would say that he should be fully awake in the morning.”  Dr. Young paused in a manner that suggested the word, ‘but’ was an imminent utterance. 

 

Solo observed him like a hawk and waited. 

 

“Yes, your partner is coming out of the coma, and yes, Dr. Greenberg is administering a treatment that he believes will ultimately halt the infection, but I’ve seen this before when a patient is battling sepsis it’s almost never had a happy ending.”  Young shrugged - as pragmatic gesture if Solo ever saw one.  “Sometimes they become comatose, but then they come out of it and look like they’re rallying, but ultimately, it proves to be too late,” Dr. Young continued. “The latest readings indicate that the sepsis has already exacerbated Mr. Kuryakin’s respiratory distress from mild to moderate.  He is tittering on the brink of total kidney shut-down and often, when that starts it’s just like dominoes falling over for complete organ failure.  There’s just not anything else we can do, except…” Dr. Young began to look decidedly uncomfortable, but he pressed on anyway, “amputation of Mr. Kuryakin’s leg, _now_.”

 

Numb.  Napoleon felt numb.  He stared at Dr. Young, his covert agent mind sluggishly processing the doctor’s dire words.  Had he just a moment ago been brimming with joy at what he thought was hope that Illya was turning a corner for the better? Why was Dr. Young pulling the rug out from under him now? Frustration, fear and a slow-boiling anger pricked Napoleon from all sides until he found both his reason and his tongue.  “I don’t understand,” Solo said slowly, carefully.  “Dr. Greenberg explained that the coma was nothing more than Illya’s body giving him some badly-needed time in order to focus on healing.  Now from what I understand, you are saying that Illya is coming out of the coma, but that he could still die if you don’t take his leg now?

  
Solo fixed the doctor with a penetrating stare under which the physician tried gamely to return.   Solo detected the slight shifting of the doctor’s body weight from side to side – a subtle tell betraying the other man’s nervousness.  Young cleared his throat.  “That is what I’m saying, Mr. Solo. I wish it were otherwise, but you deserve nothing but the truth, even if it’s not good news.” 

 

Solo contemplated the doctor’s words and almost simultaneously, was led to a disquieting revelation:  the unified front that Dr. Young and Dr. Greenberg had presented was an illusion.   Dr. Young did not actually agree with the senior U.N.C.L.E.’s medical intervention, and thus did not share Dr. Greenberg’s belief in its efficacy. The sinking feeling in the pit of Solo’s stomach that followed was nearly bottomless. He felt a headache coming on due to the fact that he was now being confronted with the idea of Illya’s doctors in conflict with each other.  Both Dr. Young and Dr. Greenberg were competent physicians.  Young, in particular was a brilliant surgeon.  Yet, it was Greenberg to whom Solo had given his implicit trust; not by blind respect for the man’s title, but by having been the recipient of his services in the past.  Even so, if there had been a formal ranking, the older man, by virtue of his posting as senior physician at U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters, and Mr. Waverly’s personal physician, would be Number One and that too earned a certain measure of trust and respect.

 

But it was Dr. Young who had operated on Illya’s shattered leg and pieced the jagged ends back together again.  It was his technical highly-developed skills as a surgeon that he had used to scrape, cut and clean the diseased necrotic flesh and bone.  There was no doubt in Solo’s mind that this was not the first case of sepsis Young had ever seen or dealt with.  One of them would be proven right and the other wrong.

 

These disturbing thoughts came to plague the mind of Napoleon Solo and he could only stare at the doctor, once again reminded that this situation involved an enemy for which he had no weapons to use against in a fight.  With emotions as grim as the expression on his face, Solo walked around the doctor and into Illya’s room where the Russian lay.  Despite Dr. Young’s dire warning, Napoleon could not help the easement of tension, for Illya was obviously in a natural sleep.  Though his body was unmoving, save for the rise and fall of his breathing, his face, less flushed than it had been no longer resembled the unnatural stillness of a wax doll.

 

Solo came to Illya’s side and looked down upon his sleeping partner.  He was not even aware of his hand reaching out on its own accord to stroke Illya’s arm that was peppered with a number of deep, ugly bruises from so many IV lines.   Solo didn’t care about that.  Illya was coming out of his coma; that was what was important.  The next time the Russian’s eyes opened, he would be fully awake and oriented to his status and cognizant of Napoleon’s presence at his side. 

 

*******

 

Solo’s early-morning day had already progressed into early-afternoon and Solo wondered just how long it would be before Illya would awaken.  Suddenly tired, Solo resumed his seat in the comfortable recliner next to Illya’s bedside and propped his head up with his hand under his chin. “You’re doing fine, Illya, just…just do me a favor and don’t do this again, okay?”

 

As he settled more comfortably into the familiar chair, his mind inevitably replayed the conversation he’d exchanged with Dr. Young.  Dr. Greenberg had reassured Napoleon with his theory that Illya’s coma was the body’s natural and temporary method of marshalling its resources to stay in the fight.  So far, Greenberg had been right.  Illya’s vital signs were stronger and his temperature had dropped a degree.  But then Dr. Young had come along and offered a surprisingly different prognosis from the one Dr. Greenberg had offered – one where Illya Kuryakin was on a sure, slippery slope to death by organ failure unless the Russian’s leg was amputated without delay.  In Napoleon’s mind, Greenberg also _had_ to be right about his belief that the new medicine being administered could save the Russian’s life.

 

At the moment, no other mindset was acceptable to Napoleon Solo. 

                                                                                                                      
 

*******                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

 

While Solo, a senior-ranking enforcement agent, spent the majority of his day seated in the bedside recliner in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, his lawyer, Alistair McKinney was in a strange reversal of roles, exercising covert ops skills in a manner the lawyer had never before been called upon to do.  In fact, when McKinney had first enlisted the aid of his co-conspirator, Dr. Greenberg, the physician had initially flatly refused on ethical grounds, the task which was asked of him.  McKinney had pointed out that what he wanted was nothing countless enforcement agents had not been provided by U.N.C.L.E. medical before.  A lame answer ensued and McKinney pressed his point:  It’s a perfectly safe compound when used on a healthy individual.  Check my medical records.  I’m in top health for a man of my age.”  

 

After having succumbed to the expert advocacy of the lawyer against his first two arguments, Dr. Greenberg then launched a third, equally futile refusal based on an argument that McKinney was a lawyer, not a trained agent.  “You’re a lawyer, not an actor,” Greenberg had earnestly argued. 

That statement and the naiveté behind it provoked a reaction few people had ever seen from the staid attorney:  a spontaneous, loud, undignified chortle.   

 

“Alan, I _am_ an actor.  What do you think a courtroom is?” McKinney had said, thinking to himself of all the times he had flawlessly executed his role before giving up the courtroom in favor of the position he held now at the U.N.C.L.E. New York HQ.  The nature of his job had required a certain amount of theater and McKinney was a master at delivering the correctly nuanced performance to benefit his client. 

 

He was no longer a courtroom attorney, but long ago when he’d practically lived in one, his analytical mind had unerringly guided him on where precisely to stand and what posture to assume once in position.  He had not just been an actor, knowing how to speak with specific inflection, but was a seasoned director too, knowing when to walk here, when to look there.  As skilled as any stage actor, whose voice and movement were meant to communicate, McKinney’s blocking was perfect and he never flubbed a line in front of his audience of twelve jurors. 

 

Today’s stage was not a courtroom in which McKinney functioned as a man completely in his element; rather it was the exclusive country club belonging to the Exeter Fairfax golf course located in the western portion of Fairfax County.   As McKinney had discussed with Dr. Greenberg, the U.N.C.L.E. lawyer would arrange a “bump” with the unsuspecting Krischek, but the seemingly accidental meeting would no longer be executed while the men were both on the course playing rounds of golf as the co-conspirators had originally planned. 

 

McKinney was not a golfer, but he was a quick study.  The day before however, he had conducted reconnaissance consisting of first, observing the game and then, some handling of golf clubs in the pro shop.  It didn’t take long for him to realize that golf was not his game.  This was not a case in which a brilliant mind could help him acquire the skills necessary to demonstrate that he was as much an accomplished golf enthusiast as his quarry, Dr. Krischek.  The bottom line, McKinney realized, was that he would not be using a golf game as a tool to meet Krischek.  How then would he accomplish the goal?

 

McKinney had stopped by Greenberg’s office in order to enlist his friend’s aid in coming up with a different approach and together, the two men hatched Plan B.  This new plan consisted of shifting the focus from the golf course to the posh club house where no demonstration of golf prowess in front of the mark would be required.    All McKinney need do was pretend he had just come in from the golf course at roughly the same time Dr. Krischek did, and then get a table near the man’s.  Of the possibility that Dr. Krischek would not come into the club house and thus thwart McKinney’s plan was a legitimate concern, but McKinney trusted that Krischeck was a creature of habit and would not deviate from what McKinney had learned was his established routine.  

 

Once the plan had been mapped out and agreed-upon, Greenberg had leaned back in his chair and studied his old friend with a curious expression on his face.

 

Alistair had caught the look and with a raised eyebrow asked, “Is there something amiss?”

 

“No.  Not exactly,” Greenberg had answered.  He shrugged, “Alistair, this is a lot of hands-on involvement.  Do you always go to such… _personal_ lengths on behalf of your clients?”

 

For a minute, Alistair was caught uncharacteristically off-guard.  Alan’s observation was correct.   He normally did not engage in ‘leg-work,’ which he detested.  He was senior enough and a prestigious enough lawyer to dispatch others to perform this type of work. So why was he going to such great lengths to see that Napoleon Solo’s record was restored completely to its former pristine condition?  Technically, the barrier that had stood between Waverly’s heir-apparent and his future position as Number One, Section One, had been knocked down with the confirmation that Dr. Phoenix had died from a THRUSH super-poison.

 

Prior to being assigned as his attorney, McKinney had never once spoken to Agent Solo.  He was, of course, aware of the reputation of  U.N.C.L.E.’s top team of Solo and Kuryakin.  Occasionally, he had come to know the impressive details of some of their more dangerous missions and the sacrifices each man had made to ensure the world’s stability and freedom.  But it was only after becoming Solo’s attorney that he had come to know the man personally.  The long days of the Inquest had brought McKinney in close proximity to Solo and the lawyer had seen first-hand how much pain Solo’s tarnished reputation had extracted from him, and how Solo had dealt with it with strength of character that was reminiscent of McKinney's personal friend, Alexander Waverly.

 

Finally, McKinney gave the only answer he could: “It’s the right thing to do, Alan,” he said softly.  He allowed a sly expression to steal across his face. “How can you ask me about going to great personal lengths on behalf of a client when you have a patient who, at this very moment, has a body part encased in _Lucilia Sericata_? 

 

The look of surprise on Greenberg’s face was most satisfying. 

 

“How did you know that?”

 

“Because there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to save your patient, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save my client.”

 

Such were the thoughts of Alistair McKinney, his fingers absently brushing against the drug vial in his sports jacket pocket.  He stood just outside of the entrance to the dining area of the Exeter club, looking about casually, all the while mentally noting faces. 

 

The Club House was an elegantly appointed facility with high, expansive windows that afforded the patrons a spectacular view of the course from almost anywhere in the room. Everything about the restaurant was reminiscent of a great English estate from the past, with no detail from the table place settings to the draperies having been overlooked.  The Exeter Golf Course had spared no expense in making its dining facility an attractive hub of post golf game social and dining activity.  The white-painted decorative crown molding perfectly accented the rich yellow of the painted walls.  The flower arrangements of exotic peach, teal, and yellow-colored flowers added elegance and beauty to the well-made antique pieces of furniture upon which they were placed.  Waiters in immaculate, tailored uniforms walked to and fro, attending to the well-heeled patrons.

 

McKinney nodded his head approvingly.  Time to get the first phase of the bump underway.  He started forward, headed in the direction of the maître d’ when he was expectantly intercepted by a young, giant of a black man wearing the crisp, clean uniform of the wait staff.    “Pardon me,” McKinney offered politely, prepared to step around the waiter.

 

“No pardon necessary, Mr. McKinney,” the young man said in a low voice.

McKinney tried but failed to disguise his surprise and apprehension. How did this man know who he was?  Who was he?  McKinney recovered himself and stared coolly at the man.  “It seems that you have me at a disadvantage.  You know my name; may I know yours?” he asked smoothly.

The twinkle in the brown eyes seemed out of place on the otherwise serious face.  “My name is Martin.  My uncle told me we are related.”

Relief flooded McKinney.  Martin was a Section Two agent.  _Alexander…_ Waverly was the only one who could have authorized the participation of a SectionTwo agent, official or otherwise, and since he knew he had not informed the U.N.C.L.E. chief of his plans, he concluded that it must have been Alan Greenberg who had seen to it that Alexander was briefed.

“How can I be of assistance?” Martin asked.

 McKinney arched an eyebrow.  If this agent dressed as a waiter was here to assist him, then perhaps he could at least ascertain whether or not Krischeck had a reservation to dine at the Club.  McKinney gestured the agent to walk with him. “Well…”

 

Thirty minutes later McKinney found himself seated at a table next to one that was as of yet, unoccupied.  He was trying not to tap his fingers impatiently while he awaited Kirschek’s arrival.  Despite his legendary unflappable nature, he was beginning to feel slightly nervous. He had truthfully assured Alan Greenberg of his good health, but the specially-formulated drug that he was to ingest was designed to induce a mild, short-lived case of tachycardia, shortness of breath and dizziness. The new plan was for Dr. Krischek to see a fellow dining golfer in distress and come to his aid.  After the dissipation of symptoms, he would claim that his chronic back pain had suddenly and painfully flared up, thus opening the door for the lawyer to establish a doctor-patient relationship with Dr. Kirschek that he would fully exploit in order to gain access to information on Krischek’s former patient, the deceased doctor Phoenix. The plan was logical, but also heavily dependent on timing and a faith, however loosely held, that the induced symptoms would dissipate as promised, without complications. 

 

McKinney looked up from his drink and suddenly, he was looking at a man fitting Dr. Krischek’s description heading toward the empty table.  The man was alone when he sat down and Martin began to wait on him.  McKinney studied his mark.  Though he was dining alone, from time to time, he was greeted by other fellow golfers.  Silver-haired gentlemen wearing expensive golf shirts, trousers and shoes stopped by to engage in brief moments of jovial conversation.  McKinney subtly signaled Martin to bring him the pre-requested meal that he had asked for.  Soon, it would be time to ingest the drug.  Deftly, McKinney broke the vial and discreetly poured the contents into his water.

 

Fortunately, there were no observant eyes to wonder why this man was staring at his drink as if it contained a poisonous insect.

 

*******

 

He had never heard Napoleon Solo talk so much in all the time he had known his partner.  Non-stop talking.  At least that’s what Illya thought Napoleon had been doing. He wasn’t sure. He wasn't sure about anything.  He’d heard words and snatches of phrases – some of which he could recall with clarity and others less so.   His mind was feeling muddled as if emerging from a fog and he was at once, both relieved and confused as he pried his eyes open.  It was a struggle, but one in which Illya strove valiantly to win.  His eyes which seemed far too heavy to lift, yielded to his will and parted.  The limbs which had refused to move for a period of time which Illya could not determine, now obeyed his commands.  He raised an arm but placed it back down again when he saw his partner, sleeping in the chair by his bedside. Solo’s head, but for the hand propped under his chin, would have been lolling on his chest.  The man's sock-clad feet were resting, elevated, on the edge of Illya’s bed.  He looked like hell. 

 

Illya suspected he didn’t look much better.    As for what his condition was -  that was something he could not yet determine with any certainty, for he did not feel entirely in touch with his body.   On the other hand, his memory, which was still hazy, and his reasoning which had been faulty of late, were beginning to clear into an awareness that something very bad had happened.  He’d been somewhere far, but it had not been the dark void that had swallowed him whole as during the seizures.  It was something else in which he’d been aware and yet not, trying to move and respond to mental stimuli, but unable. 

 

Illya shuddered and he blinked his eyes rapidly. 

 

Sleep.  He’d been bone-tired and his body desperately in need of sleep and yet he remembered being tightly-held in the grip of an unreasonable, unrelenting fear that if sleep took him he would never wake up again.  But Napoleon had promised him that that would not happen.  He’d placed his trust in him and apparently, Solo had been right or else this hospital room and the sleeping man near him were an illusion.  Despite the evidence that this was reality, Illya knew something terrible had happened.  Had he  nearly died?  The act of dying did not frighten him.  The passing into permanent, non-existence, as if his life had never been and where he could no longer be the one to watch Napoleon Solo's back, did.

 

Carefully, tentatively, Illya called his lover’s name. 

 

Napoleon startled awake.  His feet came down from Illya’s bed and Illya watched as his lover sat up and gazed intently at him.  The look of raw hope and joy on the strong lines of Napoleon’s face went straight to Illya’s heart.

 

“Illya?  Can you hear me?” Napoleon asked stupidly.

 

Illya smiled weakly.   “I think I may have done nothing else but hear your inane chatter, Napasha,” he chided affectionately through the faint, rough disuse of his voice.  He hoped, oh how he hoped that his love for the other man was shining through his eyes and clearly written on his face.

 

Solo’s mouth dropped open and the accompanying look of astonishment was enough to cause Illya to struggle to sit up in the bed.  “What’s wrong, Napoleon?”

 

“Well… nothing,” Napoleon said, “It’s just that you were unconscious and Dr. Greenberg said that you may be able to hear me.  Is that true, could you really hear what I was saying?” Napoleon asked, a slight flush coloring his cheeks.

 

 

Illya closed his eyes.  “I don’t know.  Sometimes…”    Illya open his eyes again and turned his head toward Napoleon.  “I didn’t know you had a cabin in Toronto.  Is that true?”

 

Napoleon shrugged casually, but the amazement lingered in his voice. “Yes, _Tovarisch_ , it’s true.  My family owns it, and when you are well again I’ll take you there.” 

 

Other, darker emotions came to settle upon the face of his beloved and Illya’s concern for Napoleon deepened.   “What happened to me, Napasha?” he gently inquired.  


Napoleon shook his head as if shunning the memory of the last hours.  “Illuysha, you were in a coma.”

 

Perceptive still, Illya’s senses told him there was more. “It was not your fault,” he said definitively.

 

Napoleon sighed.  “I know that.  I just can’t help feeling that I tricked you into going to sleep with a false promise that everything would be alright.”

 

“It _was_ alright.  I am still here and…”  he somewhat frantically felt for his leg, and finding it whole and covered with extremely thick bandaging, he said with weak relief, "I remain intact.”

 

Napoleon’s eyes darkened and he made no reply, but natural sleep was stealing over the Russian again and the oddness of Napoleon’s silence escaped his attention.

 

*******

 

Across from Alistair McKinney, Dr. Krischek was enjoying his meal of prime rib. The dining room, while not full to capacity, was fairly busy.  The clink of glasses and sounds of murmured conversations from patrons filled the room.  Alistair looked longingly down at the dish of pasta and colorful, succulent-looking vegetables, grilled to perfection.   No way would he be consuming any of the gourmet meal and risk an undignified bout of public vomiting.  It was enough of a sacrifice to know that very shortly, he would be making a spectacle of himself with a self-inflicted medical emergency.  Alistair eyed the glass of drug-laced water next to the fine glass of red wine Martin brought over to him.  _Bottoms up._ Alistair picked up the glass and downed the contents in one long swallow.

 

It took less than 5 minutes before the lawyer felt the effects.  Initially he felt unbearably warm and his face began to break out in a sweat.  He was grateful that he was not encumbered by a suit and constraining tie.  Next, he felt his heart begin to pound and his breath was becoming labored.  McKinney remained calm in the face of his body’s reaction to the drug.  U.N.C.L.E. knew its business.  The symptoms he was exhibiting would be sufficient enough to fool any competent physician into believing that he was a man experiencing real medical discomfort, yet dissipate quickly enough to plausibly deny the need to call for an ambulance.

 

McKinney closed his eyes and stars began to dance behind the backdrop of his lids. A wave of pain washed over him and against his will, McKinney groaned allowed, reeling with dizziness and harsh breathing.  Suddenly, the agent named Martin was by his side, in full acting mode.  “Sir.  Sir, are you alright? Are you unwell?” the agent called in a raised voice, guaranteed to attract attention.

 

Despite the growing discomfort, McKinney remembered his role.  “Please.  Help me.  I feel ill and my back is killing me!”  McKinney started to rise from the table and found that unlike the script running through his head, he was unable to.  

 

People from the surrounding tables were beginning to take note that something unusual was happening at the table near theirs.  Conversations died off, and the clinking of silverware and glasses ceased as attention was drawn to the disturbance.  

 

“Is there a doctor here? Martin called out in a raised, urgent-sounding tone. 

 

McKinney’s eyes blinked and it seemed that the next time his eyes opened he saw the face of Dr. Krischeck bending over him and a small crowd of worried patrons surrounding him.  McKinney felt the man’s hand gripping his wrist to take his pulse.

 

“I’m a physician,” Krischeck announced.  He turned his attention to the crowd of fellow patrons.  “It’s alright,” he assured.  “I’ll see to him.  Please, return to your tables and enjoy your meals.” 

 

The small crowd seemed to take the assurances to heart and it  took no further persuasion to return to their respective tables. 

 

“My good man, let me take a look at you,” Krischeck said. 

 

Above him, the agent, Martin hovered.  “Is there anything you need?” he asked solicitously. 

 

“Why yes.  My medical bag is in my car.  Be a good fellow and fetch it for me, would you?”  Krischeck fished around in his pocket and produced a key which he tossed to Martin who deftly caught it.  “It’s a crème colored Buick Riviera parked out front,” Krischek directed.

 

“Right away, Doctor.”  Martin's keen gaze passed over McKinney before disappearing with the keys to the doctor’s luxury car in hand.

 

The doctor again turned his attention to his impromptu patient. “Are you feeling any pain in your chest or arm?” Krischeck asked, his deft hands checking for fever and injury as he observed his patient’s breathing.

 

McKinney shook his head. “No, my arm doesn’t hurt.  I felt just terrible - like I was going to pass out.  I couldn’t breathe.”

 

Krischeck looked serious.  “You may be having a heart attack. We need to get you to a hospital.”

 

The doctor continued to query McKinney and examine him when Martin arrived with the doctor’s medical bag and car keys in hand.  Dr. Krischeck took the items with a dismissive nod to the ‘waiter’.   He opened the bag, removed his stethoscope and proceeded to listen to McKinney’s heart and lungs. 

 

McKinney took a deep breath.  “I think I just need to sit for a moment.  I’m starting to feel better.”  Conveniently, this was a truthful statement.  The symptoms were already beginning to dissipate.  McKinney forced his face to assume a sheepish expression.   “This is what I get for not listening to the missus.  I don’t know how she knew, but she warned me that it was not a good idea for me to go out and play a round of golf when my back has been acting up lately.  I’ve had pain before, but it’s never made me feel ill like this.”

 

Krischeck’s eyes narrowed. “This could be very serious and not at all related to your back.  I’m going to summon an ambulance to take you to the hospital.”

 

McKinney’s eyes widened.  “No, no!” he said in exaggerated forcefulness.  “I hate hospitals. I won’t go.  Besides, Doctor…'  he fished for a name that had yet to be supplied.

 

“Krischeck,” the doctor said obligingly.

 

“Well Dr. Krischeck, I’m actually feeling much better.  See for yourself.” McKinney held out his arm.

 

Dr. Krischeck rechecked his patient’s pulse and finding it satisfactory, he stood up.  “Well, I would feel better calling an ambulance for you, but since you won’t go, why don’t you join my table so I can keep an eye on you.  As luck would have it, I am a spine specialist. Your condition, if it’s related to your spine, is unusual.  Maybe there is something I can do for you.”

 

McKinney brilliantly retained his cover and refrained from smiling in anticipation of mission triumphant. 

 

*******

 

It was seven o’clock in the evening and Napoleon Solo was returning from the commissary after having devoured a dinner consisting of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich.  If Illya had been moved back to his regular room, then Solo would have been more than happy to have eaten his meal in the Russian’s room, all the while cajoling his partner to eat his own food.   But Illya remained in the Critical Care Unit and he wasn’t eating.  He was no longer talking much either.  To be fair, the Russian was sleeping a lot which Napoleon’s non-medical mind struggled to understand why.  The coma was supposed to have forced Illya into resting, but other than a few hours ago, when Illya had come fully awake, he did not appear well-rested at all.  In fact, Illya appeared increasingly uninterested in most things, unless the topic was Napoleon Solo.    In another lifetime ago, such a development might have appealed to his considerable ego, but he was that man no longer.  On the contrary, these circumstances did neither please, nor reassure him that Illya was on the road to recovery. 

 

Napoleon’s earlier joy at Illya’s emergence from the coma had long ago been tempered by hours of additional observation of the Russian.  As the day had drawn down it had become more apparent to Napoleon that his expectations for a steady recovery needed adjustment.  Solo was desperate for confirmation that the new treatment was working, but thus far, the only answer was still, “be patient”.  How could he be patient when Dr. Young had impressed upon him the urgency of time and the dire lack of it?

 

Solo was deep in his musings when he stepped back into Illya’s cubicle.

 

Solo’s gut instantly clenched in dismay. 

 

He found Dr. Greenberg there, leaning over Illya, side by side with Nurse Peggy Stone.  An orderly was on the other side of the bed.  Napoleon’s view of his partner was obstructed by the doctor and nurse but he could tell from glimpses between spaces created from moving arms that Illya had been stripped naked.  Clearly, the medical team assembled were working with a sense of urgency and the atmosphere in the air had an unmistakably tense quality to it as Nurse Stone called out the readings:  “blood pressure 85/40 mm Hg, heart rate 110 bpm, and respiratory rate 20/min. Oxygen saturation 89% on room air.

 

 “He’s bleeding here as well,” Solo heard the orderly say.

 

Illya’s gown and bed linens were on the floor.  And they were bloody. 

 

What the hell was going on?  Solo practically sprinted to the bed, going around to the other side where he could see his partner for himself.  He saw Illya and Solo nearly gasped aloud.  Dr. Greenberg had been holding open Illya’s right eyelid while trying to examine it.  The task had been made difficult and necessary due to the blood that was welling up and collecting in the lid and seeping out to run down the Russian’s face.  Greenberg released Illya’s eyelid and turned his attention to the area where Nurse Stone was preparing to pack with gauze.

 

Solo stepped closer. “My God, Illya!” he blurted in shock.  Blood was on Illya’s buttocks; a crimson ribbon was pooling along the inside of Illya’s thigh – blood that had clearly come from his anus. 

 

Peggy graced Solo with a quick, compassionate look before refocusing her attention, laser-like, on her patient. Greenberg’s acknowledgment of Solo was a terse, “step outside please,” while continuing to address this newest development.

 

He was nearly overcome with alarm, but Solo eventually summoned the presence of mind to move to the entrance of the cubicle, but no farther.  No way was he leaving Illya’s presence as he had when his partner had suffered seizures.  Solo stood watching in despair, wondering if Illya were even conscious.  A moment later he received his answer when he heard his partner’s voice answering Dr. Greenberg’s questions.  The Russian’s voice sounded slightly slurred, but he was still present and aware of what was happening to him. 

 

“Peggy,” Greenberg said urgently to Nurse Stone, “I need a unit of fresh, frozen plasma and I need it yesterday.  Mr. Kuryakin’s clotting factors need to be restored as soon as possible.  Check the listing of headquarter agents by blood type and find me at least two that are type AB to match Mr. Kuryakin and then call them down here on the double. If the first two names are not in the building, I authorize you to issue a command-wide call for anyone with AB blood type to come down to the infirmary immediately.” 

 

“Yes, Doctor,” Peggy Stone hurriedly acknowledged the order and scurried off, leaving the orderly to hold Illya in place as Doctor Greenberg continued to wipe away the blood and inspect Illya’s skin.  The skin on Kuryakin's back and legs was covered in widespread bruising and what looked to Solo like some kind of purple rash.

 

Solo closed his eyes against the anger that was rising up, threatening to displace the tide of terror.  This was it.  All day long he had tried hard not to think about the differences in what Dr. Greenberg and what Dr. Young believed was the correct medical course of action.  One doctor was convinced that Illya was going to die if his leg wasn’t amputated, and the other believed that there was still time for the new treatment to turn things around.  Napoleon had waged an internal battle to decide who was right and who was wrong.  The uncertainty was agonizing and that feeling was exacerbated because he felt as though he were a spectator in a game of medical roulette.  There could be only one winner and one loser and either way, the stake consisted of Illya’s life.

 

Now, standing in Illya’s cubicle where his partner’s blood had suddenly begun oozing from various orifices, Solo’s opinion became clear:  the time for indecision was over.  Dr. Greenberg was wrong, and Dr. Young was right.  Angrily, Solo thought that it may very well be too late already to save Illya’s life by taking off his leg.  Fueling Solo’s anger was the knowledge that Illya was not even aware of the disagreement between the doctors because Dr. Young had agreed to throw his outward support behind his superior.  What was happening now served to solidify Napoleon’s opinion that Illya had the right to know exactly where things stood so that Illya could make that life-altering decision.  

 

Napoleon took a deep breath.  He wanted to think, to strategize in quiet so that he could amass every bit of persuasive power he possessed in order to convince Illya to take this course of action.  Solo’s quiet, inner voice gently reminded him that he had no idea what was happening to bring about the bleeding.  He needed to make sure that Illya knew that he was there for him whatever news the doctor would be imparting.  Solo thought he was angry enough to end up in an entirely unproductive conversation rather than the exchange of information he sought. 

 

Solo paced silently while he waited for Dr. Greenberg to finish.  He felt helpless.  Illya needed plasma, but this one thing he could not do for his partner because he was not AB.  Had he been he would have given all he had.  Solo was feeling alone and the feeling was quite profound. Ironically, that was a condition that he had voluntarily chosen and could rectify at any time, for there were plenty of people within the U.N.C.L.E. HQ that he could call for support and they would gladly come and offer it.   If Mark Slate were in the building, he would already be here, Solo knew.  He was not, but April Dancer was here and Napoleon knew she was but a communicator pen hail away, yet he did not call her.  There was Mandy Stevenson in Translation and countless other female personnel who had genuine affection for Napoleon Solo and would be happy to offer moral support to him during this time, fraught with so much difficulty.  But he couldn’t bring himself to call anyone.  Not now.

 

It took some time, but another nurse had come in to assist the orderly in remaking Kuryakin’s bed with clean sheets and blankets. When they finished, they departed the cubicle, creating significantly more space with only Napoleon and Dr. Greenberg remaining.

 

Quietly, Napoleon approached the bedside and looked down at the Russian.

 

Illya was awake and on his back once again.  When Napoleon approached, the blond head turned and eyes that looked for him did not much resemble the Russian’s familiar eyes.  The whites were marred with red blotches and there were trace amounts of dried blood underneath Illya’s lower lids to remind Solo of the blood that had dripped from them.  Solo’s heart clenched in sympathy for the fear only he, who knew his lover so well, could discern, lurking deep within. Napoleon had never seen him look so bad before.  He swallowed before giving Illya a wan smile.  “Illya.”

 

There was a brief pause before Illya answered, as though he was processing his name from Napoleon’s lips.  “Still here,” he eventually said softly.  The Russian was looking at Napoleon with eyes that seemed to be appraising him.  “You have seen me look worse,” he said as if reading Napoleon’s mind.

 

“I’ve never seen…this,” Napoleon countered, waving a hand vaguely over Illya’s form. 

 

“I have.  Once,” the Russian said weakly. “When I was a boy...there was a young woman who became very ill after giving birth.   Days later she started bleeding from her eyes, mouth, nose…other places.”  Illya closed his eyes.  “It was terrible,” he added before turning his head as if to close the subject. 

 

The subject was not really closed though, since they were both waiting anxiously for Dr. Greenberg to give them a candid briefing.  “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”  Dr.  Greenberg, looking grim, got down to business. “Mr. Kuryakin, I won’t sugarcoat this situation – I think your bleeding and the red blotches in the whites of the eyes are caused by a syndrome called, ‘disseminated intravascular coagulation’ which can be a damn scary complication.  It happens when sepsis triggers out-of-control clotting throughout the body.  Essentially, all the clotting factors in Illya’s body are being used up very quickly, the end result is bleeding in multiple places.”

 

Napoleon felt the narrow shoulder underneath his firm hand shudder.  Napoleon squeezed it in a comforting gesture, though he was feeling anything but capable of offering true comfort. He turned to glare in frustration at Dr. Greenberg.  “You think? Why don't you know?”

 

Greenberg calmly answered Napoleon. “There’s no blood test to confirm the syndrome, but the signs are rather obvious.  We can restore the clotting factors if he’s treated with frozen plasma quickly.” 

 

“Which you don’t have on hand, I take it,” Illya said tiredly.

“Not at the moment, Mr. Kuryakin,” Greenberg replied in a low voice.  The plasma has to be _fresh_ frozen, meaning we take it from a blood donor now and separate the layers using apheresis.  Then we remove the plasma component and immediately freeze it to preserve all vital components such as the clotting factors, albumin and immunoglobin.  That’s not all that happens to it, of course,” Greenberg quickly added.  “In any event, the most important thing is that the plasma must be transfused within 24 hours to maintain all of its useful components.  That’s why the plasma we have on hand is not what Illya needs.”  He paused then to consider his words, as if sensing how much Napoleon Solo’s nerves were on edge, though he addressed his words to his patient.  “I know this is frustrating, but there are plenty of agents in this building who share your blood type, Mr. Kuryakin.   We’ll get the plasma, freeze it, thaw it, and transfuse it within 24 hours. I need you to hang in there for an two or three hours.”

“Does it look like he has a two or three hours?”  Napoleon snapped incredulously.  He knew full well it was bad form to snap at the senior medical U.N.C.L.E. doctor in that manner, but fear and desperation were running deep.  “For God’s sake, he was in a coma yesterday – a coma that, according to you, was supposed to be helping Illya’s body to overcome the sepsis!  A blind man can see that this new medicine you believe so much in isn’t working and Dr. Young says Illya’s leg needs to come off now!”

"Dr. Young told you that?"  Greenberg’s expression was thunderous;    Illya’s was sheer terror.

The blond’s sudden reaction was overwhelming in its explosiveness. “ _Nyet!_   Nonononono! I won’t do it!  You can’t!  You can’t make me!”  The hysterical shouts of the Russian echoed about the small space.   The Russian’s face was a distorted mask of panic beyond all reason as he struggled to find a way of escape from the bed, blood dripping from his eyes and nose.

Napoleon’s mouth dropped open at the violent hysteria that he never would have believed Illya capable of in his weakness.  The display of fear and adamant opposition to the idea of amputation in his partner once and for all, killed any hope Napoleon was still clinging to for persuading the Russian to permit Dr. Young to amputate the Russian’s leg and it left Napoleon a devastated wreck. The man whom he loved was prepared to die rather than part with his leg - and the choice to die meant a preference for death over life with Napoleon.  Solo bit his lip, suddenly reminded that to live also meant risking a living death in a Soviet gulag should the Russians discover Illya's homosexuality.  The realization that there was nothing he could say or do to persuade Illya to permit the amputation was almost too much.  How did Illya expect him to just sit by his side and watch him die?   He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout, he did not even spare an angry, glaring glance at Greenberg whom he was convinced had chosen a path that would end in his partner’s death. 

 But now it was Dr. Greenberg who was glaring. His ire at Napoleon was apparent in his glacier stare, but the doctor held himself in check in front of his patient as he restrained the still struggling Kuryakin.  “Easy, Mr. Kuryakin. Listen to me, no one is removing your leg against your will.”

Kuryakin ceased his violent struggling, but he lay panting and trembling as blood began to well in his right eye. The Russian blinked it away furiously as Greenberg dabbed gently at the blood with gauze. 

 “Let me give you the unit of fresh frozen plasma, alright? Greenberg said in his most soothing tone.  “We caught this early on and the treatment can reverse what’s happening.”  Greenberg turned to Solo.  “Mr. Solo, I don’t blame you for being skeptical.  I told you before, I won’t lie to you - this _is_ a serious complication, but I promise, in 12 hours, I’ll know if the main treatment, is going to resolve the underlying infection.”

_Twelve hours?  I don’t know.  I don’t know._ Napoleon’s heart and mind were torn and in a nightmare he could not seem to escape.  Illya didn’t look to him like a man who had even eight hours more of fight left in him.  Regardless of what he thought, it was not up to him. As long as Illya could speak for himself, it remained his decision.

Napoleon stared hard at the doctor as if he could see right through flesh and bone to the heart of the man.  He took a small step backwards.  “All right.  I concede there’s nothing I can do here.  You are the medical professional here, but I swear…” Napoleon exerted his last ounce of control over himself to refrain from issuing the threat he longed to utter. 

Greenberg was saved from having to make a meaningful response by the arrival of Nurse Stone and two individuals with her. 

Napoleon’s eyes widened at the sight of who was with the nurse.    It was none other than Mr. Waverly and a man Solo recognized vaguely as being from Section Five: Communications and Security.

“Alexander,” Dr. Greenberg acknowledged, sounding only slightly surprised.

“Alan”, came the Old Man’s greeting.

Solo straightened his back and toned down his surprised expression at Section One, Number One’s appearance.  “Mr. Waverly…” Solo fished for something to say.  “I didn’t know you and Illya shared the same blood type.”

“He didn’t know that either,” Peggy Stone chirped in.  “I pulled out the list just as you said, Dr. Greenberg and whose name was at the top for AB?”  The question was rhetorical and required no response.  “Mr. Waverly.  He came down at once when I explained the situation.  This gentlemen is David Keller from Section 5.  His was the second name on the list.”

Mr. Waverly stepped up to the bedside to have a better look at his Number Two enforcement agent.  The bushy eyebrows raised, then lowered as he tried but failed to hide a dismayed expression upon seeing the physical condition of his agent.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly said in a tone of voice unlike any Solo had ever heard the tough-as-nails Section Chief use before.

A confused look initially crossed Illya’s face when he saw who was addressing him, only to be replaced by an expression that Solo attributed to Illya realizing who it was, and the subsequent embarrassment at finding his boss at his bedside. Not that Solo could blame him. He’d been with Illya for days and he’d had time to adjust to the Russian’s changed appearance, but Solo could not say how long ago Mr. Waverly had seen Illya Kuryakin with his own two eyes. As far as Solo knew, The Old Man had not come down to see Illya while he was in a coma.  Solo could only imagine how great the shock of seeing the agent’s appearance today had to be.

“You did not have to come down here, Sir.” Illya whispered at last.

Mr. Waverly recovered himself.  “On the contrary, young man. Apparently, I have something you need and that I wish to give.  Frankly, you look as though you’ve had quite a time of things.   My orders to you are to cease this nonsense at once and get well soon.  Do you understand?” Waverly asked with a sternness that contained only a hint of a mock-tone.

 “I will,” Illya replied weakly, but dutifully.

Mr. Waverly addressed Dr. Greenberg then and his tone lost all hints of previous paternal warmth.  “I understand Mr. Kuryakin’s condition is rather dire.”  He frowned then. “What of this treatment that I procured for you?  -  at significant personal expense, mind you.” 

Greenberg stood ramrod straight in front of his boss and friend.  “I don’t know yet.  There is still time, but Alexander, and we don’t have time to waste here.  Will you both please come with me to the lab right away so I can extract and freeze the plasma?”

Waverly harrumphed and made to exit the Critical Care Unit.  “As you wish.  Let’s get this over with, Mr. Keller, shall we?” Section One, Number One turned grey, serious eyes on the younger man who had accompanied him.  Keller quickly nodded his assent and trailed behind Waverly.   With that, Dr. Greenberg and Nurse Stone followed Waverly and Keller out, leaving the space silent, with only Solo and Kuryakin left to contemplate the ironies of time when there seemed to be simultaneously too much of it and not enough.  


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: the PREVIOUS CHAPTER, chapter 50 is the NEWEST chapter NOT 51!! I'm not sure it the archive is showing that chapter 50 is the newest one.

It took three and a half hours for Dr. Greenberg to return with the critical units of fresh, frozen plasma.  That was three and a half excruciating hours where Solo stayed with Illya, trying to tamp down his anxiety as he watched Nurse Stone help Illya clean the blood whenever it would start oozing again from the Russian’s eyes, and nose.  Solo too had done his best to help clean the blood from Illya’s face and hands, but when the sheets below his hips began to showed red blood stains, it proved too much for Napoleon.  He’s squeezed his partner’s shoulder and hurriedly excused himself so that Nurse Stone could assist Illya in private.     

 

Most of the time, Illya remained awake and when they weren’t dealing with the bleeding, Napoleon and Illya spoke together – Napoleon in his best, smooth, calming voice, and Illya in a halting, soft tone; light as a feather.  They conversed of small things and of big things, of hopeful plans for the future when Napoleon would fully resume his CEA duties.  Those were serious conversations, but there were broken by moments of humor too. When he was able, and perhaps mindful of his earlier outburst along with awareness of Napoleon’s frayed nerves, Illya allowed his acerbic wit to surface.  Hearing it was a balm to Napoleon’s soul. 

 

In their lighter moments, they cloaked their words in subtle subtext to communicate the anticipation of being together sexually again once Illya was well.  It was Napoleon who had raised that subject and the older agent had smirked when he saw the way Illya’s lip lifted in a disdainful curl, having correctly discerned the Russian’s thought:  Illya was not in any way, shape or form looking like a person the former playboy should desire sexually.  It was true that the wan, bruised, bleeding, and hollow-eyed face was a far cry from the Illya of robust health and strength, but Napoleon’s love and desire for Illya Kuryakin had only increased and solidified into something deeply profound during the Russian’s illness.  Napoleon had teasingly assured his partner that he had many other fine qualities which his illness had done nothing to diminish.  Illya had quipped that he would think of Napoleon's finer qualities, but he would have to be patient while Illya thought.

 

Napoleon was eternally grateful that Illya remained conscious, though it was clear that the disseminated intravascular coagulation syndrome was sapping the small increases in strength and energy gained from the period of coma.  The stretches between conversations were growing and the periods of spontaneous bleeding were occurring with increased frequency and duration. Illya’s levity was vanishing and he grew fretful.  During those times when the bleeding stopped, Illya wanted to know how much time had passed.  To Napoleon, it seemed as though every hour were passing slower and slower and it seemed an entire eternity had passed before Dr. Greenberg and a nurse returned with the plasma to administer it.

 

 Illya looked relieved at Dr. Greenberg’s appearance.

 

 “It’s about time,” Napoleon muttered as he got up to make way for the medical team. 

 

Greenberg ignored Solo’s comment and went straight to taking Illya’s vitals while the accompanying nurse began setting up the IV for the transfusion.  “You’re going to be alright, Mr. Kuryakin.  The plasma will restore the clotting factors and the spontaneous bleeding will stop.” 

 

The doctor’s words were meant to reassure, but the tension in the man was obvious to Napoleon and he could not but help wonder whether or not this treatment was going to work any better than the new one Greenberg had placed so much faith in to treat Illya’s infection.   

 

 Then the plasma was flowing into Illya’s veins, and the Russian closed his eyes wearily. “Thank you, Dr. Greenberg.   Will you...”  Illya paused to lick his dry lips…“give my thanks to Mr. Waverly?”

 

“I’ll pass that along, but of course you can always thank him yourself.”

 

Illya made no response and Greenberg, seeing his work was done, and his patient  made clean and comfortable, squeezed Illya’s shoulder gently.  “Hang in there, Illya.”Before they left, Greenberg checked the nurse’s handiwork and found it satisfactory.  “Please get another complete blood count, and be sure to provide a platelet count as well,” he requested.  He turned to Napoleon. “I’m not leaving here until I know that the clotting factors are functioning normally again.  Dr. Young’s shift will start in another hour."  He looked at Solo directly.  “If neither one of you has any questions, we’ll leave and the let the plasma do its work.”

 

Solo cleared his throat. “I appreciate it.  I know Illya does too.” 

 

 Dr.  Greenberg nodded his head, then he and the nurse departed. 

 

*******

 

The day of vigil had turned into evening and the two men waited.  There was nothing else to do while the night grew later. Illya dozed and would startle awake, then repeat the cycle. Solo hoped his partner would fall asleep soon but he was not about to make that suggestion. 

 

Solo’s stomach reminded him that his dinner  had been meager and hours ago, but Solo ignored the demand for food.   He knew it was silly of him, but he couldn’t help but feel that every time he left the infirmary, he returned only to find Illya in the middle of a new crisis.  According to the last check of the Russian’s vital signs, Illya’s temperature had climbed two degrees and there had been no further conversation between them since the plasma had been administered.

 

Napoleon was looking at Illya and he was beginning to feel unnerved. 

Illya was lying perfectly still, staring at him with such a strange, fathomless quality of intensity in the fevered blue eyes he‘d never seen before.  Napoleon’s gut clenched. Was Illya about to take a turn for the worse?  Should he get Dr. Greenberg?  His heart seemed to beat faster and his mouth went dry suddenly, but he steeled his voice to inquire calmly, “Illyusha, why are you looking at me like that?”

 

The eyes trained upon his face did not look elsewhere, but Illya slowly raised his left hand and placed it gently on the side of Napoleon‘s face. 

 

“I’m studying your face.”

 

After hours of Illya not saying anything, Napoleon‘s tension eased slightly at that and he smiled - a small, encouraging smile.  He leaned forward into the soft caress.  “Why?  You’ve seen this mug way too much over the last few years, haven’t you?”

 

“Not nearly enough, Napasha…not nearly enough...”  Illya’s voice trailed off to a soft whisper, the words seem to be carried away in tide of his weakness.  “I don’t believe in an afterlife, you know. This is all there is.  Here.  Now.  I want all the parts and the sum of your face to be everything there is in my mind before there‘s nothing.”

 

Understanding and anguish seized Napoleon.  He knew full well Illya was an atheist.  He himself had long ago fallen away from the Catholic catechism of his childhood religion.   But worldly and tarnished as his soul was, even it still clung to the belief in an afterlife, with those who had done evil in life relegated to a roasting climate, and those who had done good, permitted entrance into restful, perfect place called Heaven. But this wasn’t about who was right and who was wrong.  It was Napoleon’s belief that Illya - his tough-as-nails partner, was giving up the fight. 

 

“Illya,” Napoleon said sharply, desperately.  “You’re not going anywhere, damn it!  I won’t let you.  You’ve come too far to give up now.”

 

Illya sighed.  “I’m tired.”

 

“I know you are,” Napoleon answered softly.  _Tovarisch,_ look, there’s been no bleeding in a half an hour.  That means the plasma is starting to work.”  

 

When Illya said nothing, and Napoleon repeated, “it’s working.”  He didn’t know what else to say.  He had begged, bribed and cajoled his partner to keep fighting. _Please, Illya!_ The plea remained locked in his heart.

Illya had fallen asleep then and Napoleon feared that maybe it was to be  the last time he would speak to his partner this side of the veil. Napoleon’s grief was a living thing, twisting through him, turning his guts inside out.  He dropped into the chair like a boneless ragdoll until there was only instinct to guide his next move. Napoleon Solo did what he had not done since he was a private in the Army:  He prayed. He prayed as hard as he could.  He recalled only bits and pieces of the Catholic prayers the school nuns had taught him, but he prayed them in their imperfect state anyway until even the prayers to God fell off.   Mentally and emotionally exhausted, Napoleon followed his partner into a sleep so deep and profound that he did not again awaken until the late  morning hours of the next day.

 

*******

 

He did not expect to open his eyes again on this mortal plane of existence, much less to the sight of three elated faces above, looking down at him.  It was Drs. Greenberg, Young and Nurse Richardson.  Illya Kuryakin blinked in surprise and made the supreme effort to turn his head to look about him.   Yes, here were the white sterile walls of the Critical Care Unit cubicle to which he had been confined.  Yes, the  starched white sheets were against his skin and he felt his leg, still attached and intact.   No, he was not dead.  He was very much alive and in the infirmary. 

 

Dr. Greenberg stopped grinning long enough to reassure his patient.   “You’re going to be just fine, Mr. Kuryakin.”

 

Illya contemplated the words with a mind that for once, did not feel clouded in a fog.  It was easier for him to think. He was not burning with fever, neither did he have blood falling from his eyes or any other place blood had no business pooling.  He tried and failed to speak so instead, he slowly raised his arms to look at them.  It was a difficult task but when they came in view, Illya quickly dropped them in relief at what he saw.  The strange, ugly purple rash had faded. 

 

He licked his lips and discovered he was thirsty.  He was still tired, and there was pain, but…Illya’s eyes widened.  The terrible, pulsing agony that had been his leg was barely a dull ache now.  The feeling that his body was betraying him with slow organ failure had also greatly lessened.  

 

 _I am better.  Am I better?_  “Napoleon?  Where is Napoleon?”  Illya managed to croak.  He raised his head and found Solo  deeply asleep in the recliner with a blanket thrown over him. Napoleon’s mouth was open and his always stylishly combed dark-hair, mussed.  

 

“Shh…he’s here, asleep.  The poor man. He’s exhausted and who can blame him.  He’s been through a lot,” Lavinia Richardson said.

 

“Sleep is the best thing for him right now.  Just like for a certain patient I know,” Dr. Greenberg added.

 

If the doctor was worried about Solo’s lack of rest, then Illya was equally worried about the Doctor’s.  The man looked as though he had aged a few years since this whole ordeal had begun.  What day was it when he had last seen Dr. Greenberg?  What day was it now?

 

Dr. Young burst into Illya’s musings with an excitement he could no longer contain.   “I didn’t believe it.  I just didn’t believe that Dr. Greenberg had found an effective cure.   I was so wrong. Mr. Kuryakin, your case is one for the medical books.”

 

Dr. Greenberg looked serious and there was no trace of any arrogant boasting on his part when he said, “I knew we were running out of time, but I believed that we had done everything medically correct to give the treatment time to work and Illya had just the right amount of stubborn resilience to hold on. 

 

Illya felt weak with profound relief.  His questing hand that moved towards his leg once again, spoke the question his mouth could not yet.

 

“All signs of tissue necrosis is gone.  The flesh and the bone are healing now and the infection is under control,” Greenberg assured, smiling broadly.

 

Dr. Young shook his head.  “Who knew a book about the Civil War would contain such an effective cure in an era of such crude medicine.”

 

Lavinia’s white teeth flashed.  She chuckled softly.  “You didn’t have to dig through an old book to find that.  When I was a little girl in Jamaica, that was used all the time.”

 

 _Tired.  I’m so tired, but this is different. Ah, Napoleon, I am not afraid of this sleep._  His eyes were closing.  The siren song of sleep was once again seducing him, but when what Nurse Richardson had said, fully dawned on him, he fought to open them again.  He was burning with curiosity.  “What?” he said, startled to hear his own weak, scratchy voice again.     

 

Greenberg patted him on the shoulder and merely said, “Later.  Go back to sleep now and I’ll explain it later.”

 

Illya sighed.  Napoleon was here; the doctors were happy, and he was alive. Sleep was warm and inviting and he went to it and dreamed of walking along a beach in Brazil with Napoleon by his side.

 

*******

 

It was late afternoon when Illya’s eyes next blinked lazily open.  The beloved face of  Napoleon, smiling, came into view.

 

“How do you feel, my love?”  Solo asked softly.

 

There was a slight delay as Illya’s mind, still fuzzy from sleep, processed the question.  How _did_ he feel?  He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open.  At last he got his voice to cooperate with his desire to speak and he croaked out an answer with a throat that was painfully dry.  “I feel as though I’ve spent a week as the recipient of THRUSH’s hospitality.”

 

Illya frowned.  His voice sounded so pathetically weak.  Napoleon quickly moved to pour him a glass of water.  Then Illya felt Napoleon gently lift his head and slowly ease some of the cool liquid into his mouth.  Even so, he choked on some of it.

 

“Easy, _Tovarisch.,_ ” Napoleon murmured.  He wiped away at the slight amount of water that had escaped from his lips.  “Let’s try this again.”

Napoleon lifted his head and again put the glass to his mouth.  This time Illya drank deeply and the water went down smoothly, soothing his sore throat and quenching the burning fires.

When he was finished, he sighed with contentment.  He closed his eyes and revisited Napoleon’s question.  He was exhausted but he forced himself to stretch once and to wiggle his toes.  Satisfied that he had all his appendages, he smiled faintly at Napoleon, but in a voice that sounded stronger than it had earlier, said, “Better.  I feel better.”

 

Napoleon looked at Illya with great longing in his eyes.  “I want so much to kiss you - right now, right here.  He leaned a little forward and with deliberate care took his finger and wiped a remaining drop of stray moisture from Illya’s full lower lip.

 

Weakened though he was, Illya’s body reacted under the onslaught of Napoleon’s subtle sensuality.  He felt his manhood stirring faintly and it pleased him.  Illya’s answering Mona Lisa smile promised everything and nothing at the same time.

 

Later. There would be time for them later. 

 

*******

 

One day later, Napoleon Solo walked into Mr. Waverly’s outer office after having been summoned. He graced Lisa Rogers with a smile, feeling like  a new man.  He was still reveling in the joy of finding Illya awake and having turned the corner.   A miracle had occurred, as far he was concerned, while he had, for all intents and purposes, collapsed in the recliner by Illya’s bedside for nearly 9 hours, his tough, Russian partner had continued to fight for life rather than give up as Napoleon had supposed he had.   When he had awakened it was to the sight of Illya’s clear blue eyes looking at him with deep love and affection. Napoleon had instantly known that something drastic had changed, and yet he could hardly believe what he was seeing. 

 

His heart knew though. 

 

He did not regret a single one of the tears that had spilled from his eyes at the miraculous sight of his partner, weak still, but no longer looking like he was on death’s door.

 

He had gone home, showered, shaved and changed.  He had been on his way to visit Illya, but upon his return to HQ, he had learned that Mr. Waverly was insisting upon seeing him first.  Now about to enter Mr. Waverly’s inner sanctum, Solo wondered what was on the Old Man’s mind.

 

“Go in, Napoleon, he’s waiting for you,” Rogers said with a smile and a toss of her long, brown hair. “Oh, and Napoleon, I’m so very happy to hear about Illya.”

 

“Thank you, Lisa,” Napoleon answered.  He gave a short knock and then walked in.  He startled when he saw who was there in Waverly’s office.  Rogers had not mentioned that Mr. McKinney was there and yet the lawyer was sitting in one of the leather chairs in front of Waverly’s desk.  His grey, pin stripped suit was immaculately pressed and his fashionable walking stick was by his side, as usual.  Solo smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Waverly.”  He sat down next to Mr. McKinney.  “Good morning.”  He racked his mind to see if he had missed any meetings with the lawyer and couldn’t come up with anything.  

 

“Ah...it’s Mr. Solo…my client.  I have heard that you are not in need of a new partner,” McKinney said.

 

“Well...let’s just say that I decided to keep him after all, Alistair.”

 

“That’s good.  Give Mr. Kuryakin my best wishes – and I truly mean that, Mr. Solo.”

 

“I will,” Solo said.  

 

Mr. Waverly interrupted then.  “I summoned you to my office to impart a bit of good news of a professional nature.”

 

“Oh?”  Solo looked between the two men.

 

“I congratulate you, Napoleon Solo. Your record is fully restored to its former pristine state due to the extraordinary efforts of your counsel.  Mr. McKinney was able to attain confirmation from the physician who treated him, that Dr. Phoenix suffered from chronic spondylolithesis of the C2 vertebra axis.”

 

Napoleon smiled then – a genuine Solo smile that meant the Innocent had been saved, the THRUSH madman stopped, and the world made safe.  “It’s over.  It’s really over.”  He turned and held out his hand to his lawyer.  McKinney took it and Solo shook the lawyer’s hand vigorously.  “I don’t know what you did to get that information, but I sincerely thank you.  If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

 

“No thanks are necessary, Mr. Solo.  I am sincerely glad for this outcome,” McKinney said.  “As for how I did it…”

 

McKinney wove his tale of covert ops and by the time he was done, Solo knew all about Agent Martin, drug-induced medical emergencies, and the contact McKinney had made with Dr. Kirschek in order to gain access to his patient medical records.

 

When McKinney had told all, he turned to Waverly.  “I trust I may now resume my regular duties, Alexander?” 

 

“Naturally, Alistair,” Waverly agreed.

 

McKinney stood up and walked to the door. He was about to walk through when he suddenly drew up short and turned back around again.

“Mr. Solo,” he said.  “Do you perhaps play golf?”

 

Solo looked at McKinney curiously.  “Yes, why do you ask?”

 

McKinney’s smile was enigmatic.  “I may call upon you for some private lessons on the golf course.  You see, I never learned the game, but after all these years, it’s come to my attention that not knowing how to play is a deficiency.”   Before Solo could respond, McKinney slipped through the sliding door and was gone.

 

“Mr. Solo.  How is Mr. Kuryakin?  He’s better.  Much better.  But then again, you could come down and see for yourself,” he half invited, half challenged.”

 

Much to Solo’s surprise, Mr. Waverly took the bait. The Old Man rose from behind his desk.  “That’s a splendid idea, Mr. Solo.  Let’s you and I take a stroll down to the infirmary and see how Mr. Kuryakin is doing.”

 

“Of course.”  Solo stood up and together, the two men exited the office and walked down the corridor to the elevator.  In short time, they had descended into the bowels of U.N.C.L.E. and into the infirmary. 

 

A much well-rested Dr. Greenberg saw the two when they entered the infirmary.  “Alexander, Mr. Solo,” Greenberg hailed the two men with a smile.  “Good morning.  Come to see Mr. Kuryakin?”

 

Waverly looked pleased and in a particularly good mood.  “From what I hear, my agent should change his name to Lazarus.” 

 

Greenberg laughed.  “Perhaps.  Come and see for yourself.”  Greenberg accompanied the visitors to the Critical Care Unit. 

 

“Dr. Greenberg,” Solo asked, “how long will Illya remain in the Critical Care Unit? 

 

“Just one more day,” Greenberg said.  “We’re not taking any chances, you understand.”

 

They arrived at Illya’s cubicle and when they entered, they found the Russian sitting up in bed with Nurse Richardson by the bed, attending to her patient.  Her tall form blocked the view of what she was doing, but Solo could see a cart buy the bed with a bowl, clean wraps and scissors on top. 

 

When Illya caught sight of his visitors, his face assumed an animated expression. “You should see this, Napoleon.” The Russian cried.

 

“Oh,” Greenberg said when he saw his nurse, busy at her task, “Perhaps you should come back at another time,” he suggested.

 

“Nonsense,” Waverly replied.  “We’re here now.”  He gestured with a wrinkled hand, “It isn’t as though we’ve never seen bandages being changed before.”

 

“Alexander,” Greenberg cautioned.  “I wouldn’t if I were you.” 

 

The Old Man drew up short, looking annoyed.  “Why ever not?”

 

 “Two words.  _Lucilia. Sericata.”_

Waverly halted dead in his tracks and a look of disgust crossed the leathery features.  He backed away.   “Good God man, is this the Middle Ages?” Waverly exclaimed.

 

Dr. Greenberg chuckled.  “Hardly.  It’s what saved his leg and his life.”

In the next moments to come, Napoleon Solo, who had never been a good student in his 12th grade Latin class, came to bitterly regret it.  He pressed forward, having no clue as to what had caused his boss to call out and back away, and eager to find out why.  

 

Before Greenberg could stop him, Napoleon looked.  Napoleon saw.   The color drained from the strong, tanned face.

 

Nurse Richardson was carefully disposing of what looked like hundreds of white, round wiggling maggots from the clean, healing wound on Illya’s leg while his partner looked on at the creatures with fascinated, scientific curiosity. 

 

From the first time in his life, Napoleon Solo, fainted dead away, leaving the others to stare open mouthed at the sight. 

      

*******

_One Month Later_

 

Illya Kuryakin stepped out of the elevator of Napoleon Solo’s building and into the dwelling where the initiation of their lives as a sexual couple began.  He was sore and tired from another round of intensive physical therapy but he felt incredibly alive and strong despite the crutches he still used.  He shifted his weight on the uncomfortable things and pressed forward, thinking about the hot shower he was going to enjoy, followed by his favorite thing:  Napoleon’s warm hands massaging his leg, removing the ache and soreness from it.

 

The wooden crutches the Russian used would be a requirement for another two weeks and then he would be fully liberated from them. He was barely using them now, and only needed them when he was outside of Napoleon’s apartment.  The impending independence from the crutches was a blessing with a double edge to it. He would be more independent but because of that, there would exist no more legitimate reason for Illya to remain in Solo’s apartment.  He would have to go back to living in his own tiny place, and sleeping in his own single bed, and not Napoleon’s comfortable king-size bed. 

 

Napoleon’s apartment is where he felt at home. It was where love, understanding and companionship dwelled. Within those walls, they could be all of who they were without fear of harm. But their time of living in domestic bliss was nothing more than an illusion and the clock was running out on them.

 

Before he had a chance to use the key he had fumbled for to gain entrance, the door swung open and the wafting sounds of Illya’s favorite jazz record wafted out.  Napoleon stood inside the door. His feet were bare, his shirt, half buttoned and loosely tucked in a rare pair of blue jeans.  Illya’s mouth went dry at the sight of tantalizing, bare tanned skin of Napoleon’s chest and the dazzling smile that lite up Illya’s world.  This was a way that he and he alone got to see Napoleon everyday, and he treasured every moment of it, while simultaneously longing for more.  He’d gotten used to seeing Napoleon like this, since his release from the infirmary.  Ironically, when he had the most access to Napoleon, he was the least physically able to act upon what his heart desired.

 

He tired easily and the re-insertion of the external fixation devices had initially set his recovery back slightly.  No matter what his heart and mind wanted, his illness had depleted his body’s strength. On top of that, physical therapy was difficult and further taxing to his strength.  

 

But every day was better and this day when Illya stood looking at Napoleon, he knew without  any concrete facts that this day would end like no other. 

 

“Come in, Illya,” Napoleon said.  “Are you hungry?”

 

Illya’s attention was drawn from the tantalizing vision of Napoleon to his stomach.  It was growling at the mention of food.  “Yes.  I’m starving.”  He frowned.  “Why did you mention food?”

 

Napoleon laughed.  “Because, my surely Russian, I’ve made spaghetti and meatballs while you were gone.”  Cooking for Illya was a source of pleasure for Napoleon.  He relished making all of the Russian’s favorite American foods in an attempt to rebuild the athletic frame that Illya had had before his illness. 

 

The door closed and it was just the two of them.  Illya let the crutches fall and Napoleon came forward to hold the Russian in his arms.  They kissed slowly, deeply, feeling the passion rise that Illya wondered if he were ready for.   

 

They broke apart and Illya’s nose crinkled slightly having caught whiff of the odor of sweat.  “I need a shower, Napoleon.” 

 

“Here, let me give you a hand.”

 

“I can do it, Napoleon,”  Illya protested.  This was a new side of Napoleon – the extreme protectiveness.  Somehow, Illya sensed that underneath the care, the concern and protectiveness, something dark and festering lurked and it needed to be exposed.  Napoleon was covering his emotions and Illya perceived that the time would come when the band aide covering the wound would tear off. 

 

Now was not that time and so Illya momentarily yielded to Solo’s need.

Lightly, he placed one arm about the taller man’s neck as Solo braced himself on the opposite side of Illya’s broken leg.  His body acting as a cane, Solo assisted Illya to the bathroom.

 

Once there, Napoleon safely deposited Illya on the toilet seat and Illya made short work of his clothes until he was sitting bare, slighty shivering in the coolness of the bathroom.  Napoleon’s hands gently wandered over the pale skin that still bore bruising from the PIC and IV lines.  “I’m fine, Napoleon,” Illya said gently. “Go and get the lunch on the table.”

 

“Alright.”  But it was a full minute before he left the bathroom and Illya started his shower.

  
One half hour later, Napoleon and Illya were at the table.  Illya was on his third plate of spaghetti and his eighth meatball when Illya’s predictive insight into Napoleon’s mood came to fruition in a completely unanticipated manner.

 

For some reason, Napoleon had barely touched his food.  Illya was so hungry that he hadn’t noticed that Napoleon had kept his right hand down by Napoleon’s side, out of sight.   Suddenly, Illya noticed. “This is delicious. Why are you not eating?” Illya asked carefully, stabbing a fork into his meatball and waving it in Napoleon’s direction. 

 

Napoleon, looking like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar, pulled his right hand from beneath the table and sheepishly, placed it on top. 

 

“I would, but I burned my hand on the stove.”

 

“Illya’s fork dropped and he scrambled awkwardly up.

 

“Illya, stay there,” Solo said.

 

“No. Why haven’t you put something on that?  Give it to me, let me see,” Illya demanded.

  
“It’s nothing,” Solo insisted stubbornly. 

 

“It is not nothing, you blockhead.  An untreated burn can turn serious.”  Illya wobbled over without his crutches.

 

Napoleon’s face darkened. The invisible wound on Solo’s soul was seeping pus now. “You are going to fall and hurt yourself.”

 

“That burn needs to be treated before something happens.”

 

 “Something happens?"  Solo's tone turned unexpectedly ugly and Illya said nothing as he watched his partner.   "Like what? Solo continued. "  My hand gets infected?” Napoleon harshly asked.

 

Illya frowned.  “Yes.  You know as well as I do how bad an infection can get.”

 

“Yes. That’s right.  I do.” Napoleon said in a low voice. “Serious enough to require amputation to stay alive."

 

Illlya winced.  “Damn it, why are you being this stubborn, Napoleon? After everything you’ve done for me, why won’t you let me help you? Don’t you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”

 

With that, the band aid was ripped completely off. “You would do anything for me, Illya?  Is that right?”  Napoleon laughed and it was an angry, hurt, bitter sound.

 

“Napoleon…” Illya said bewildered.  
 

“I’ll tell you the one thing that you would _never_ do for me, no matter how much I pleaded and begged you so that you could stay alive – so that you could be with me.   I _begged_ you Illya to let them take your leg if it came down to it and you refused.  You would rather go to your grave a whole man than live with me a cripple!” 

 

The words were cutting, biting and placed with surgical precision down Illya’s heart.  Illya looked into Napoleon’s eyes and saw unshed tears threatening to spill over. Napoleon was hurting and Illya was the cause.

 

Illya closed his eyes against the onslaught of Napoleon’s hurt.  He had done this to this proud man by making it seem as though Napoleon’s love was worth less than his leg. But that was not what he had meant to imply at all and if faced with the same choice all over again, Illya could not honestly say that he would not choose the very same again.

 

Wordlessly, Illya went to Napoleon and wrapped his arms around the man.  “Hush.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you, Napoleon Solo.  Please forgive me for what I put you through.”  Illya’s desperate words were turning into a chant of half Russian and half English words, and he kissed Napoleon’s face, his hands, his neck until Napoleon was kissing him back, lips, tongues and teeth colliding, touching and tangling. 

 

Illya’s hands went under Solo’s shirt and he stroked the firm flesh over the flat abs upward until he found Solo's nipples.  He stroked them, all the while their mouths were locked together in passion.  The flames were stoked between their bodies until suddenly, Napoleon put his arm underneath Illya. 

 

“Come to the bedroom, Illya”, Solo murmured.

 

It was not the smooth walk of two equally healthy individuals.  It was not the elegant bridal carry of one person in the arms of another. It was Napoleon and Illya, a cord of two, binding one to the other, bearing each other’s burdens.  They stumbled to the bedroom leaving a trail of clothes along the way until they tumbled into Napoleon’s big bed, naked. 

 

Illya reached for Napoleon’s organ and found the hard column of flesh, straining against Napoleon’s belly.  Napoleon moaned and writhed above the stroking hand. 

 

Napoleon’s hand reached for Illya and he found the Russian equally as hard.  Illya had never felt so aroused before.  Illya moaned and spread his legs apart to grant Napoleon unfettered access to his body.  Napoleon used every skill and trick he had perfected with women to bring about the highest height of arousal, and he found ways to adapt them to Illya’s masculine anatomy.

 

“Illya Kuryakin, I want you.” Napoleon breathed between kisses and caresses to Illya’s body.  “I want you so badly.”

 

“Da.  I want you.  Inside.  I want you now.”  Illya’s body was on fire, the conflagration completely overtaking his senses from the way Napoleon hands were masterfully playing and stroking him.

 

“Illya.  I’ve never…” Napoleon started to explain that he had never taken a man in that way before. 

 

“I know, Napoleon, I know.  Let me guide you.” 

 

And Illya did.  He took Napoleon’s uncertainty in the ultimate carnal act with a man and cherished it as the rare, precious thing that it was.  Napoleon was giving Illya his trust and his respect so that Illya could show him how Napoleon could use his body to give and receive the ultimate act of pleasure without causing pain to his lover.

 

Slowly, carefully, Illya guided Napoleon on how to prepare his body with lips, tongue, fingers and finally, lubrication.  Illya shook with anticipation when he felt, for the first time, Napoleon’s finger breach his body, first one and then another and still yet a third.  Napoleon was on his side with Illya’s slender body in front of him while the digits stroked him deep inside.  “Move your fingers, touch me inside,” Illya begged.

 

And Napoleon did.  He stroked the hot walls of Illya’s tender insides until he felt a hard nub. When his questing fingers touched and stroked it again, Illya cried out and bucked with ecstasy. 

 

 Napoleon’s erection was pressed hard against Illya’s buttocks, urgent demanding.   Illya, teasingly ignored it and turned to face Napoleon and resume the passionate kisses that had led them to the bedroom in the first place.  Illya nudged Napoleon on to his back and Napoleon brought Illya’s slight body on top of him in a roll. 

 

Illya, with cat-like grace that belied any recent injury, placed his legs on either side of Napoleon, straddling the tanned, powerful body.  Slowly he moved down Napoleon’s abdomen and hips on the way to the nicely-shaped thighs.  Every so often, Napoleon bucked slightly until Illya reached Napoleon’s groin, his own arousal intensifying as he inhaled the clean musk-scent of Napoleon’s body.  Illya’s eyes beheld the nest of curly dark hair and he paused to bestow a sensual kiss upon the straining erection. 

 

“You are so very beautiful, Napasha,” Illya crooned.

 

Napoleon moaned and his body shook with unrepressed passion.  He raised his hips as if to urge Illya to take him into his mouth, but Illya ignored the unspoken request.  Instead, he raised his hips up and over Napoleon’s stiff organ and positioned his body in front of it.  

 

Illya shuddered in pleasure when he felt Napoleon’s hot hard column of flesh touching him on his bare buttocks.  Napoleon’s hand about Illya’s hips, gently urged him upward, but Illya’s only response was a slight shake of his head and a look from piercing blue eyes blazing a message that clearly said that he would have his own way, in his own time.  Illya leaned over, his chest nearly touching Napoleon’s as his strong hands braced Napoleon’s face on either side. 

 

Then Illya kissed Napoleon. 

 

His kiss was slow, deep and languid as he savored the contrasting hard and smoothness of Napoleon’s lips and tongue.  Napoleon moaned again and Illya’s mouth captured it and did not release until he himself felt a need he could no longer deny.

 

Carefully, Illya raised his body up, strategically positioning his opening above  the tip of Napoleon’s weeping organ.  He held himself still, poised in the moment just before he would take Napoleon deep inside his body.

 

“Are you sure?”  Napoleon asked, warm brown eyes regarding him with both great longing and great respect.

 

“Yes.”  That was all that was required.  Illya knew Napoleon would not begrudge him if he chose to stop and Illya loved him all the more for it.

 

Then he took Napoleon’s length in his hand and placed the throbbing tip at his entrance.  Slowly he lowered himself upon the glistening organ, groaning in ecstasy as he was breached and stretched.  Down and down he took more of Napoleon into himself, feeling the fullness that brought both pain and pleasure. 

 

Finally, Illya was all the way seated.  He sucked in his breath at the feeling of having all of Napoleon’s ample erection buried deep in his tight channel.  Napoleon was panting.  Sweat broke across his brow as Illya remained motionless, delaying the sweet motion Napoleon craved. 

 

Napoleon gripped Illya’s hips.  “Ride me.”  he breathed, the words no less an unmistakable command for having been quietly spoken.

  

Illya used his arms to brace himself and take the weight off his heeling leg.  Then he began a steady rocking motion, up and down as the Napoleon’s hardness dragged across his prostate again and again.  “Put your hand on me, Napoleon,” Illya begged.  Napoleon was an apt pupil.  He wrapped his hand around Illya’s cock and fisted him in time to Illya’s rhythm.  Over and over, Illya rode Napoleon’s organ buried deep inside until together, they climbed the peak of ecstasy.  The orgasm that Napoleon pounded from Illya’s body was the very one that triggered his own, as hot flesh pulsing sent Illya’s seed jetting out.

 

The powerful body underneath him tensed, and in a moment the hands that gripped Illya’s hips stilled.  Illya heard Napoleon cry out with the strength of his powerful climax.  Napoleon’s hot seed flooded Illya’s insides and Illya’s body shook with the pleasure of receiving Napoleon’s offering.   Chests heaving, skin slick with sweat and come, Illya gently let Napoleon’s cock slip from his body.  Illya reached for the cloth he had placed by the bed and used all his remaining strength to wipe both of them before collapsing in exhaustion next to Napoleon.

 

“Are you alright, Napoleon?”  Illya asked uncertainly, after a time when all was quiet.

 

Napoleon kissed Illya gently.  “I’ve never been better.  Thank you, my love.  Thank you for everything.”  Now it was Napoleon’s turn to look uncertain.  “Did I?...”

 

“Yes, you did everything right, Napoleon.  Everything.”  Illya’s eyes drooped and within minutes he was fast asleep cradled in the arms of Napoleon Solo.

 

He never knew that Napoleon lay behind him for some time, stroking the blond hair and bestowing occasional kisses before he too, dropped into a sleep where his dreams were filled with erotic visions of Illya naked, Illya writhing beneath him in pleasure as Napoleon fingered the hardening pebbles of Illya’s nipples, tweaking and rubbing the sensitive flesh until Illya was moaning helplessly with desire.

 

The next days flew by with each man attending to his own business during the day.  Napoleon had resumed his duties as CEA, and the extended time that Mr. Waverly had granted him to care for his partner, was coming to an end.  Illya too was often at HQ for physical therapy every other day.  Thus, during the daytime, their time belonged to others, but the nights belonged to them.

 

Their nights were filled with nothing between them but exploring, sharing, tasting the naked hard muscled body of the other.  Sometimes they took their time making love, moving slow and sensually, riding the passionate waves until they crested together and lay blissfully sated in each other’s arms.  It was Illya who willingly granted Napoleon access to his body in that most intimate, sacred act.  One was like a worshipper and the other, the worshipped one.  

 

Other nights, their lovemaking was hard, fast and furious, raw passions setting their bodies aflame with pure animal lust.  Napoleon rode his partner’s body with abandon and Illya begged for more; master and mount. 

 

Nights later, as so frequently before, Illya lay beneath Napoleon as Napoleon placed his slick finger at the slender man’s opening, teasing and penetrating him, preparing him to be filled by his throbbing sex.  But in a surprise and powerful move, Illya used the strength in his deceptively slender body to suddenly flip Napoleon, thus reversing their positions.

 

On the bottom now, Napoleon found himself staring up into the face of a fey creature.  Illya’s blue eyes were very deep pools, shining with an other-worldly desire.  The moonlight caught Illya’s blond hair and made it fairly shimmer with a silverish light.  The fringes of his bangs, grown overly long, fell forward like a waterfall. 

 

“I am not your woman,” Illya fairly growled.  His powerful hands roamed freely until they reached underneath to clasp Napoleon’s firm buttocks.

 

Napoleon did not wonder at what Illya meant. His meaning was clear.

 

Napoleon gulped.  Illya’s erection, like his large hands, was an impressive organ in proportion to the slim body.  Napoleon had savored the delights of its weight and girth in his mouth many times...but never elsewhere.  Never had any man breached his most intimate portal.  “N-no. You’re not...”  he said.   He shivered with a mixture of fear, fascination and anticipation.  What would it be like to feel the joy of such complete surrender?  Would he feel ecstasy like Illya did when impaled?

 

He was nervous, but Napoleon was determined that he too, would know what Illya experienced when he was taken.

 

“I will be careful,” Illya swore.

 

“I know.”

 

“Turn over on your stomach,” Illya nudged his partner.

 

Solo did as Illya instructed.  Then Illya placed a pillow beneath Napoleon’s hips and gently pushed Napoleon’s strong legs apart until the secret treasure was revealed. 

 

Slowly, with care and kisses, Illya prepared Napoleon.  He teased the puckered opening and played with Napoleon’s body as if it were his playground.  He was hard and aching and when Illya’s fingers finally went inside him and nudged the hidden jewel inside, Napoleon thought he would go crazy.  The whimpering sound that came from him when the fingers were withdrawn sounded as if they had come from someone and somewhere else.  Illya hushed him and spoke words of passion in Russian.  When the fingers were replaced by Illya’s erection, slowly advancing deep inside, there was pain, but there was pleasure too.  Illya knew just what to do to arouse Napoleon and give him the most powerful internal stimulation that he was feeling for the first time. 

 

Illya moved slowly, carefully inside until Napoleon, impatient with heightened need, begged Illya to move faster, to pound him hard and deep.  

 

To Napoleon’s joy, the Russian did just that.

 

It was beautiful. They had become one, in body, soul and mind and the cries that rang through the night were of wind and rain, fire and ice rising and falling, burning and melting together.  

 

When it was over, they lay together heaving, arms and legs entwined from the dance as old as time. “Napoleon?  Are you well?”  The blue eyes that searched his face were happy and yet there was a tinge of worry too.   Napoleon read there all of Illya’s unspoken concerns.  Was he hurt?  Had he found the act pleasurable? Had Illya been an adequate lover?

 

Napoleon’s answer was the most tender of kisses which he bestowed upon Illya’s face.  His heart was so full of love for this small Russian who had, in every sense of the words, ‘turned his life upside down’.  “I love you, Illya Nicovitch Kuryakin. I love you with all that I am and all that I am capable of being.”  

 

Illya Kuryakin gazed back and then the beautiful blue eyes that Napoleon never tired of looking into took on a far away expression.

They lay silent for a time and then Napoleon’s curiosity grew too great.

 

“Illyusha, what are you thinking?” Napoleon asked gently.

 

The Russian did not answer right away.  He seemed to be reflecting on something while his hands continued to lazily stroke down the side of Napoleon’s body.  His gaze shifted again and he was present and ready to speak his mind.  “I was thinking:  what a long odyssey this has been for you and for me.  It seems a life time ago when I was buried alive in a pit.   I never stopped believing that you would come for me.  Even then, when the last shower of dirt rained down on me and I could no longer breathe, and I knew that I was going to die, I still believed that you would come for me.  And you did.

 

“I will always come for you,” vowed the American.

 

“And I, you,” swore the Russian. 

 

It was as Napoleon Solo knew it would be to the very end of time - Napoleon had his back, and Illya had his. 

 

FINI!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have enjoyed reading this fic, why not do something new and leave a note? LOL - if you think it's the worst thing you've ever read, you can say that too!


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